Irresistable Impulse
by Adamantwrites
Summary: An old love of Adam's is in trouble so Adam leaves his wife and child in the care of his family to return to Boston. Will he abandon his family to stay with her?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and plots are the property of their respective owners. Original characters and plots are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.

What I remember the most about Zane, other than her face, her beautiful face, was how we always laughed together, those blissful times when we would share a clever remark or see the absurdity of any situation. Zane brought me joy as well as grief but then that's the nature of the beast. In Zane, I had found a complementary soul. Sometimes, even after all these years, I find myself smiling when something reminds me of her and then the despondency over losing her hits me and the wound is fresh again. I suppose I'm like a child who picks at a scab and keeps it from healing over but some nights when I can't sleep, my wife Mary Edith, gently slumbering down the hall in her room, I think of Zane and her smooth white bosom and how we would lie wrapped around each other, tasting each other's mouths, consuming each other until we felt like one being. Nights like that, I become so restless I have to get up and go downstairs to find comfort in a shot of whiskey and my memories of Zane.

About five years ago, I was in St Louis and smelled her perfume but with a subtle difference. I spun around, my heart pounding, hoping to see Zane, but it was someone else—a mere woman, not a goddess like Zane. But the smell—a combination of honey and roses, brought Zane back to me for a few brief seconds and I was young and in love and the world was full of promise. I inhaled the fragrance and I know this might seem odd, but the subtle difference in the perfume was that Zane made it distinctly hers—she gave it a subtle note of sex. Zane always smelled that way and her scent alone would rouse me. Oh, Zane, how I ached to see you again but you weren't there. My disappointment was acute.

I suppose, reading this, you might be shaking your head in disapproval. Here I have a wife, Mary Edith, and a two year old son and I'm crying into my beer, so to speak, over a lost love. I suppose that makes me a son-of-a-bitch but don't be so quick to judge me. I am content in my marriage. Mary Edith is a wonderful woman who asks nothing of me except that I return her affection, love my child and treat them both with kindness and charity. I do that and more—I am a good husband and I know that after the last time when I saw Zane again, that I would remain with my family and live out my life knowing that I had experienced at least one great passion and in that I'm fortunate. Nevertheless, sometimes my loins still ache for Zane and when I kiss Mary Edith goodnight, I want instead to feel Zane's hot, demanding mouth on mine. But she's lost to me.

I take five newspapers as I needed to keep up with not only cattle prices but information on the Transcontinental Railroad; providing railroad timbers has become a great part of Ponderosa business. The Central Pacific whose rail lines started in San Francisco, stretch to join the Union Pacific which starts in Omaha Nebraska. They joined in 1869 but there were yet thousands of miles of rail tracks to be built and existing tracks to be repaired; we have multiple contracts to fill. Ponderosa timber is helping join the east with the west. In order to keep apprised, I read _The Territorial Enterprise, The Sacramento Bee, The Philadelphia Public Ledger, The San Francisco Daily Evening Picayune_ and i _The New England Chronicle._

I read the _Chronicle_ since it was published in Cambridge where I went to school and I like to keep up with matters. It's also where I met Zane and I hoped that someday, I might read something that dealt with her. The last thing I had read about her had been over 15 years ago—closer to 20 actually, and it was an announcement that Miss Zane Vandeweghe, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Vandeweghe of Cambridge, Massachusetts was to be married to Mr. Mortimer Otis, Esq., the second son of Honorable Mr. and Mrs. James Otis, Esq. of Boston. I had been expecting it but after I read it, I balled up the paper and tossed it in the small stove in my apartment. It was then that I decided to leave my New York apprenticeship and return to Nevada and home but I still subscribed to the newspaper just in case her name would again grace the pages.

Don't misunderstand me; at the time I read of Zane's engagement, I was basically finished with my apprenticeship, had gained a great deal of experience from the well-respected architectural firm of Townes & Sullivan and I developed unique ideas on ways of building supports and of interior design. They claimed that I had shown them how to design buildings with new eyes. I should have stayed with them and built my own career but that's hindsight. My original plan had been to-over time-gain enough respectability in New York society that I could ask for Zane's hand in marriage and now it was too late and I laughed at my youthful hubris. Who had I thought I was? I would always be a parvenu to the Knickerbocker society of New York for whom Townes & Sullivan worked designing grand summer homes and stables. I also knew from my college days that I would never be accepted in Boston Society, become a "Boston Brahmin" and that Zane's parents wanted her to marry into the inner circle of Boston society of which they weren't part, being 'nouveau riche'. And rich they were. Vandeweghe had made a killing in railroad stock and with a beautiful daughter as a pawn in the social game of chess, he was determined to become a player in their world.

After the engagement announcement, I knew I had lost Zane. I wondered if she was sad knowing we would never be together again, never enjoy our passionate trysts and our times afterwards. The part of our relationship that I would miss the most was talking and laughing with her in the streaming moonlight, her white skin such a contrast to my swarthy coloring-Zane lying on her side while I did the same facing her. I would run my hand up and down the curves of her smooth body. But the social powers against us were too strong. I could have romanticized our final separation, played out a star-crossed lovers' scenario but I'm too rational. I guess I always knew that Zane could never truly be mine-but she had been mine for a time, albeit too short a time.


	2. Chapter 2

I always read the mail, especially the newspapers at breakfast; Mary Edith knows not expect too much in the way of conversation and always keeps my coffee cup filled and asks upon occasion if I want more toast and jelly or ham and eggs. I usually give a monosyllabic response but Mary Edith, wonderful Mary Edith is never offended—according to her upbringing, the husband is the master of the house and should be indulged in his habits. She is a wonderful woman and I am a fortunate man. Fortunate.

Except for [i] _The Territorial Enterprise_ [/i], the papers came through the mail so I was always a few days behind in the news but it did give me the upper hand in negotiations; I knew things that were happening in the east that the railway owners preferred I didn't know. But that day I was sitting at breakfast, my son Abner in my lap chatting away as toddlers his age do, my not paying the least bit attention but making noises to indicate I was following his babble and then I saw it. I swear the wind was knocked out of me as I had a visceral reaction.

 _A most amazing crime has a most amazing suspect. Mrs. Mortimer Otis, nee Vandeweghe of this very township, has been arrested in her home in Boston for the murder of Mr. Wade Curtis, a visitor to our fair city. Although it is usually in the society pages of the Boston Weekly in which the name Otis is mentioned, it appears as if the police have no doubt that Mrs. Otis is the perpetrator in the shooting death of Mr. Curtis, profession unknown, which happened at the respectable Fairmont Hotel. Randall Sanford, the desk clerk at the hotel, told the investigating constables that at approximately 8:00 pm the evening of the crime, Mrs. Otis entered the Fairmont lobby and took to the stairs. Mr. Sanford said that he was familiar with Mrs. Otis, not just by her pictures in the paper at the many galas she attended and the charities she sponsored, but by the fact that she had been to visit Mr. Curtis many times during the two weeks of his stay and had initially asked for his room, giving her name and stating that she and Mr. Curtis were past acquaintances. It was on that fateful night of March 16_ _th_ _, that the desk clerk reported that two shots were fired in one of the upper rooms and that when he and the bell hop hurried to investigate, Mrs. Otis was leaving the dead man's hotel room and slipping a small caliber gun in her reticule. When the desk clerk tried to detain her, Mrs. Otis refused, told the man to unhand her and left the hotel Fairmont by taking a hack. In investigating, Mr. Sanford reported that Mr. Curtis, dressed in a silk smoking jacket, lay slumped against the bed, his eyes wide open and a bullet hole in his forehead. The bell hop left for the police. When the constables arrived, they were given the information and despite the protestations of Mr. Mortimer Otis who is a respected junior partner in the firm of Otis, Otis and Bradlee, Mrs. Otis was summarily arrested at her grand residence and transported to jail. For once her bracelets were not of gold and jewels. After a quick search, the murder weapon was discovered in the lady's pearl-encrusted reticule in her private chambers. It is being held as evidence._

My face must have betrayed me because Mary Edith asked me what was wrong. I still remember looking at her sweet, gentle face and feeling ashamed as the memory of Zane overwhelmed me and made me sweat.

"Is it bad news, Adam? You look awful." She had stopped eating.

"Um…no. Well, yes, in a way." I stood up and handed Abner to her—her face expressed surprise at my action. I kissed my son on his dark hair as I sat him in her lap. "I need to take a business trip to Boston." I had said it without intending to—I swear it's the truth—until that very moment I hadn't formed any plans. I had always told myself time after time that if I read any bad news about Zane, I would not take off and go see her but that's what I was doing. I excused my action to myself; Zane was in trouble. But deep down I knew that I only wanted an excuse to see her—desperately wanted to see her again.

I was packing my bags, not just one but a larger portmanteau laying open on the bed in which I was packing two suits and other dress clothes; in Boston I would need them. I couldn't visit Zane in ranch gear and wearing boots that had stepped in horse shit. I needed to present myself in a respectable way—not that Zane ever cared. I had considered at the time and still hold to be true that Zane liked my rough edges. Once as we lay in the dark, she stated that she liked the edge of danger about me and how, in passion, I handled her roughly. I remember she had stretched and twisted while I ran my hands over her curves, feeling the smoothness on her belly and the firm softness of her breasts and how they felt to my mouth—oh, I ache just thinking about her—but she had also asked at the time if I only loved her because her daddy was rich. I remember I laughed and then said that I would show her again why I loved her and pulled her against me. I told her that her cunt was far more valuable to me than her daddy's money in the bank. Zane had laughed delightedly at that and then moved over me, kissing my chest and my neck before she straddled my hips and fed me into her hungry body.

As a boy on the Ponderosa, I used to enjoy watching the otters play in the water, how they were so lithe and slick and Zane reminded me of them. She had a way of moving—and not just in bed—that made a man long to take her and fuck her senseless. But Zane was almost unapproachable to all the others. She had chosen me, picked me out at the gala to be hers and for her to be mine…but I'll tell you about that later.

Anyway, I was packing for my trip and Mary Edith came into the bedroom.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" She stood by the bed, so trusting and I felt like the lying, lustful bastard that I was.

"I'm not sure. Maybe two weeks in Boston, a week on the train and a week home—a month or a bit more. I'll wire you when I'm on my way home."

"Oh, that long." Mary Edith went to the dresser and picked up my brushes and shaving mug and soap. "I'll put these in your kit bag."

"You don't need to do that. I can take care of my packing." I stopped what I was doing and Mary Edith looked at me in that sad way she had. I felt as if she knew that I was running off for some reprehensible reason.

"I don't mind doing it, Adam." She continued with packing the toiletries and then went to the bureau and opened a drawer. "How many shirts will you need? I'll…"

I went to her and gently turned her to face me.

"I'll pack my things. You go do what you usually do. Don't let me disrupt your schedule."

"You don't even know what that is, do you, Adam?" She looked at me with a small, fey smile.

"What do you mean?" But I knew what she meant. I paid no attention to what she did around the house as I usually left right after breakfast and then came home in the evening in time for dinner.

"Nothing, dear. I'll go clear the table and wash the dishes. Let me know if you need anything." Mary Edith turned to leave.

"Mary Edith…" She stopped and looked at me expectantly. I had the feeling she was hoping I would ask her to accompany me to Boston. "Since I'll be gone so long, I want you and Abner to stay at the Ponderosa. I don't like the idea of you two being out here alone. I'll stop by the Ponderosa and ask Hoss or Joe to come out and fetch you this afternoon."

"If you think that's best," she said and left.

I sat heavily on the bed. I knew I should never have married Mary Edith—never. But I did love her. I still do and every night I thank God for her and for my son but I also wish I desired her and I'm ashamed to say that I'm thankful that having more children is inadvisable. As I tell Mary Edith whenever she gets that sad look and asks me if I'm disappointed that we have only one child, her life is far more valuable to me than more children—as for discussion of the sexual part of our marriage, she would suffer extreme embarrassment and humiliation should I ask for alternate ways to be satisfied—so I abandoned all thoughts of that long ago and say that we have our son and he's enough—we don't need more children. And I mean that.


	3. Chapter 3

I suppose that I owe it to you and Mary Edith, in a manner, to explain our life together. Mary Edith has always been here, always in Virginia City, always a shadow and never really in the light. She and I were in Virginia City's school together but I barely noticed her except that she was the quiet, pleasant-looking girl in the class who stood on the sidelines as we kicked the ball around. She stood with the other girls who laughed and giggled but she never did—just smiled as if she wore a mask. Then as we became older, Mary Edith was still there in the background but I never paid her much attention except to say hello and on occasion, I would dance with her as she stood or sat in the hall waiting to be asked—again wearing the small smile. Dancing with Mary Edith was always awkward as she was stiff in my arms, obviously uncomfortable with being held close and that made it difficult to lead her around the floor. But she seemed such a sad creature that I endured by making light conversation and then quickly leading her back to her seat after the set and sometimes fetching her a glass of punch before I left her. I did notice that Mary Edith always followed me with her eyes and sometimes it made me uncomfortable.

Her mother became ill when we were seventeen and as I was preparing to go to school in the east; it didn't concern me. I am a selfish bastard and except for my family, I tend not to be concerned with those on the margin of my relationships. Anyway, Mary Edith nursed her mother and took care of the house while her father continued his work at the bank and then, when her mother died, she continued in her duties. I remember, stuck among all the other hometown news, my father noting Mrs. Ewing's passing in a letter. I had trouble for a moment remembering who Mrs. Ewing was and then I put her together with Mary Edith and didn't think of it again.

And then after Zane, after I returned home, I became mired in the business of the Ponderosa. That and visits to the saloons and the whorehouses were what I thought I needed to get Zane out of my blood. I even had a few short-lived romances and some serious ones but at 39, I remained unmarried. Then Mary Edith's father died. My family attended the funeral and Mary Edith was so distraught and pitiful—melancholy-that after a few months, I asked her to a church picnic. I saw it as a kindness but I found her kind and gentle, just what I needed in my life after all the turmoil of romantic entanglements I had endured. I was through with passion and drama and longed for peace, so I asked her to marry me, she accepted and we had a small ceremony at the Ponderosa; Mary Edith glowed in her happiness. She was actually beautiful that day.

Our wedding night was as romantic as I could make it. I gave her a pearl necklace as a wedding gift and she flushed with happiness as she placed it about her neck. I told her she was lovely and took her in my arms, my hands moving about her but she was uncomfortable with the situation so she left to change into her sleep gown. Mary Edith was shy and I didn't push her and I found that making love to Mary Edith was agreeable. That may seem an odd word to use but I had stated that I was through with passion. I satisfied myself between her legs and Mary Edith seemed to want no more from me but to hold her close afterwards. That suited me as I really had no more to give. The morning after, we traveled to San Francisco for a honeymoon but Mary Edith didn't like it there—too loud and busy—too many people—too vulgar-so I cut short our trip and once we were back at the Ponderosa, I set about to rebuild a house I had started a few years earlier when I was to be married to my cousin's wife. Yes, Laura Dayton Cartwright was to have been my wife but fortunately for me, she instead married my cousin Will.

Anyway, most of the wood had to be replaced due to exposure, but the chimney and downstairs fireplace were intact and in remarkably good shape so by borrowing a few hands from the ranch whom I paid extra for their labor on the weekends, the house was soon completed and Mary Edith was soon pregnant. That made me proud but it just shows how ridiculous I am—women are impregnated very day—it's no great accomplishment. But I couldn't move Mary Edith into the house as she had become ill. It was a bad pregnancy. Mary Edith bled upon occasion and she would cry about the possibility of losing the baby. I would spend evenings reading to her in her room as we now slept apart for her comfort as she grew larger and even more miserable. We never shared a room again.

Our son came early—seven weeks early. It was frightening to see the thin, pale infant who had trouble breathing, his abdomen caving in as he struggled—his chest like a plucked chicken's, his skin wrinkled and sagging since, as Mrs. Shaughnessy said, he hadn't had time to build a layer of fat. I sat with him and was too stunned even to pray. Mrs. Shaughnessy helped those first few weeks, working with Hop Sing to devise a way to feed such a small child; Mary Edith had no milk but she was too sick to nurse a child; the doctor said that if she tried, the child would suck the life from her.

And may all his gods bless Hop Sing. He would spend hours feeding my son my placing drops of milk in the child's mouth since Abner wasn't strong enough to suckle, cooing over him in Chinese. The almost cadaverous child, my child, frightened me. His cry was high-pitched and annoying. But I did my part when I could and was a much better parent when Abner grew some and could suck and take a bottle. When he opened his gray eyes and developed some plumpness to his cheeks, he looked more human to me. Hoss didn't even complain about the scanty meals Hop Sing fixed while caring for Abner who was named for my wife's father. His full name is Abner Stoddard Cartwright.

Mary Edith had hemorrhaged after the birth and run a high fever and I was told to prepare for the worst. She drifted in and out of a feverish state, unable to feed our child, unable to provide the least of care—even unable to carry on a conversation. She was sweating out her life with high fevers. A month later, Dr. Paul Martin said that it was lucky we hadn't lost them both.

After two months, once my wife had sufficiently recovered and was no longer in danger of dying and Abner, my boy, was becoming healthy and now had a lusty cry instead the weak wail he had the first month of his life, Paul asked to speak with me privately. He said, after a bit of awkward hemming and hawing, that there should be no more children and I should avoid the temptation. Mary Edith wasn't built for children and if she became pregnant again, the chances were that she would die even before giving birth. She was now 41 and her body wasn't that strong.

So Mary Edith and I had no more marital relations and I never complained and never went into town to visit a whore except four times in the two years since Abner's birth and that was only out of desperation for the feel of a woman's body. If Mary Edith suspected my occasionally infidelity, she never said anything but then she was always gracious and forgiving; married to me she'd have to be.

And Paul's orders were that Mary Edith eat to regain her strength. She had lost about twenty pounds during her illness but she quickly regained the weight and then some. Hop Sing had no trouble providing cakes and cookies as well as cream pies for her and Mary Edith seemed to make eating the sweets and pastries her main delight other than our son. But then Mary Edith was older and of the older ladies in Virginia City were either plump like a well-fed heifer or stringy like an scrawny chicken.

Pa knew that things weren't right in my marriage but he never said anything and I appreciated it. My family loved Mary Edith and adored Abner who grew to be a bright, handsome child—a child I was proud of. Once though, Hoss said that I had surprised him by marrying Mary Edith.

"She don't seem your type no how," Hoss said. "But then there ain't many women you more or less courted that I figured you'd like."

"Now what the hell do you mean by that?"

"I always figgered you to go for someone who'd been around some." I must have looked confused because he quickly added, "Not no whore or nothin' but a woman who, well, had a little more life about 'er. You know, someone who…" Hoss' voice dropped away.

We rode in silence for a distance and then I said, "I surprised myself as well by marrying her but she's what I need in a wife." And Hoss said nothing. And that whole afternoon I thought of Zane. I wonder what Hoss would have said had he met Zane, heard her ready laughter, heard her fascinating conversation and was the recipient of her mild flirtations while she held onto my arm because that was the way things were when we were in public. The message sent to other men was that she could flirt and tease but she was mine and I alone enjoyed her-no one else. I was the one who lay between her legs despite the mores of society; she was above them because Zane was beautiful and intelligent and wealthy. Zane was the envy of all the other young debutantes and she drove men mad, both young and old. She made my blood heat up so that once during a party, I took her in a rose arbor in the back of a stately Boston mansion.

Then, when I tumbled her in her bed later that evening, I called her a bitch and she bit my nipples and wrapped her legs tighter about me. She had encouraged me to move faster and harder but I didn't need any encouragement. I wanted nothing more but to marry Zane and have nights like that over and over for all my life. But I know my brothers, and had I married Zane and brought her to the Ponderosa, she would have knocked them to their knees and my father would have been nervous around her, trying his best to feel paternal.

The afternoon that I left for Boston, I took Mary Edith and Abner to the Ponderosa, deciding not to wait for Hoss or Joe, afraid that she would tell them not to bother and that she and Abner would stay at our house. She had only packed a few things for the two of them as she could always return to our house for more items but as she had packed, she quietly reiterated that she saw no reason for them to stay at the Ponderosa. I said nothing as I tended to become sarcastic and I knew that hurt her gentle feelings. After we had a disagreement—never violent-I always hated myself for being cruel to one who loved me and whose only crime was to quietly express her views which were often the opposite of mine.

Abner, once we turned into the drive heading to the house became excited and babbled on about his 'Gampa' and his 'Uncas'. He always made me laugh with his enthusiasm at seeing my family. They- including Hop Sing-spoiled him to no end and Mary Edith always complained that it took about two days after a visit for him to begin to obey her again. I knew that was one of the reasons she didn't look forward to the extended stay at the Ponderosa. The other reasons were because she didn't enjoy being a guest and having people fuss over her and the other was that I would be away. I never could really understand why she minded my being gone as we rarely talked and most of the time the only voices to be heard in our home were Abner's and Mary Edith's as she quietly responded. No voice was ever raised in anger in our house and our conversations were polite on the whole. She and I never argued as I said, although I often behaved like an ass. But Mary Edith would smile gently and serve me coffee and a piece of cake she had baked and I knew to settle down and thank her. And she would tell me she loved me and I could honestly respond that I loved her as well.

Pa came out of the house when we pulled up in the yard and Abner eagerly went to him. My father kissed his grandson's hair and his cheeks while Abner chortled and pointed at the barn where the horses were kept. '"a born rancher," my father said many times due to the boy's interest in the animals and the goings-on. Both my brothers argued about who would teach Abner what—lassoing, branding, gun-slinging, and bronc riding. I always had to soothe Mary Edith as the idea of Abner becoming a 'cowboy' terrified her. She wanted him to take over the business aspects of the ranch when he came of age and didn't want him to become rough and callous. I assured her that I understood and that there would be many years before she had to worry but in a manner I was insulted. After all, Abner was a Cartwright, my son and although I wanted more for him, I also wanted him to grow up to learn the value of hard work and a man without callouses on his hands wasn't a man at all in my opinion.

'Well, what's all this?" My father looked at the luggage in the back of the buggy.

I jumped down from the seat and helped Mary Edith down. "I'm going to Boston—something's come up and I don't want to leave Mary Edith and Abner alone all that time. Is it all right if they stay here? I might be gone more than a month depending on how quickly the matter is resolved."

Pa was happy to have to have them stay, especially Abner; he could never get enough of his only grandchild, at least for the time being. Joe was going to be married in the fall to Eloise Braymer, a pretty, chatty redhead. Eloise was so tiny and small that from a distance, she looked like a child. But she was delightful, always smiling and they obviously adored each other. It roused a bit of envy within me but I told myself that I had known such love and that now it was Joe's time. It helped.

Hop Sing came out of the kitchen, grinning at Abner. 'So you come visit, Hop Sing," he said taking my son from his grandfather's arms. "I have cookies for favorite boy. You have appetite like Uncle Hoss. I give cup of milk too.'

"Oh, dear," Mary Edith said, obviously distressed. "I had better go see that Abner doesn't eat too much and become ill." She turned to me and I did as all husbands do when they are leaving for a trip—I kissed her. She left for the kitchen, hot on Hop Sing's heels.

"Thanks, Pa. I'll leave the buggy at the livery. Would one of you pick it up?"

"Yes, I'll do it tomorrow when I go into town but I can drive you in if you like."

No. Just pick up the buggy when you have time." I climbed back up in the seat. I didn't want to be alone with my father and his questions; I might have to tell him the truth and he knew nothing about Zane Vandeweghe and I wanted to keep it that way—at least for the time being.

"Adam, what business? Is it ranch business I should know about? The railroad?"

"What?" I had been hoping to get away without having to tell my father about why I was going to Boston. I had told Mary Edith that it was business—just not what type of business and she didn't have enough interest or understanding of the complex, many-faceted aspects of Ponderosa business to inquire but Pa, he wasn't be so easily placated.

"What business do we have in Boston?"

"We don't. I do." I hoped he wouldn't ask me anymore questions and something in my face must have suggested that because he stepped back from the buggy. I picked up the reins but my father stepped forward again and held on to them.

"Does Mary Edith know why you're going? What the business is? That it's personal?"

"No, and if she asks, all you need to say is what you know—that it's business. Now don't look like that, Pa. Don't worry-she won't ask you." I waited but he said nothing more about it, just told me to not be gone too long and to take care. I had a wife and child waiting for me.


	4. Chapter 4

On the way to Boston I had hours alone with my thoughts—not always a good thing. I envy people who don't know themselves, who can't see the hypocrisy and darkness in their souls as it's best to remain ignorant of one's own motivations. I knew that no matter how many times I told myself that I was just wanting to help an old friend, Zane, I also knew that I wanted to see if she still loved me and if I still loved her. I don't know why that was important at this point in my life, but I had to know. Were my memories of our youthful affair exaggerated in my mind? Had I made her some fantastical creature, a chimera—a mixture of all the best aspects of womanhood in one person? When I saw Zane, would she look like any other 36 year old woman?

Mary Edith had never been beautiful so when her face became lined and heavier around the jowl, when she began to have her dresses taken out, it wasn't tragic. But I wondered how Zane looked. Would she also be thick about the middle? Would her bosom sag and her hips be occasionally fraught with the misery of arthritis as Mary Edith's were making it difficult to climb the stairs? Was Zane no longer desirable? I prepared myself for seeing her, hoping that if she was dramatically different from my memories that my face wouldn't reveal my disappointment. Actually, I almost hoped that would be the case, that at last I could put Zane out of my mind, that she would lose the status of goddess and just be a normal woman who shat and burped.

But then I wasn't the same either—disappointment works both ways. I knew that only my physical labor kept my belly from hanging over my trouser waist but creases had begun to form across my forehead and my hairline had receded while the hair about my temples had turned gray. Perhaps Zane would be disenchanted in me. That would be just what I deserved.

You may think that I was a bit over the top about Zane, not quite healthy but love does that to a person. It's a bit like being drunk—that feeling of euphoria. I figure if a person knows that grand state once, well, that it's a close as one can get to paradise. Heaven, if there is one, can only be a disappointment after knowing such rapture as that.

I had met Zane at a dinner for charity, raising funds for a hospital that served the poor. I had been invited by a friend from college, Avery Norcross, who had graduated at the top of my class—I was second but not by much. Avery's family was one of the old families of Boston and I liked his father, having met him on two earlier occasions. He was a quiet, urbane, well-spoken man who put on no affectations. He, along with the other founding families of Boston, felt they didn't have to. After all, their forefathers had come over on the Mayflower or the Arbella and they believed it was their destiny to lead and improve society. Although a few of the families had lost most of their wealth, it didn't matter. 'Who' always mattered more than 'how much'.

'"I don't know," I told Avery when he proffered the invitation. He was in New York on business for his father's law firm. "If it's for charity, then a donation will be required, correct? I can barely make it through the month as it is."

"Don't worry," Avery assured me. "All the money is given in confidentiality—no one knows how much anyone else has given. I just think you should make connections and trust me, Misters Townes and Sullivan will be impressed to know that you're rubbing elbows with the people who matter."

I still wasn't sure. It would be nice to have connections as I planned to stay on with the architectural firm; they had offered me a position and it looked as if I would finally be making some real money and wouldn't have to depend on my father's support. Although I know that my father never resented sending me a bank draft every month, I wanted to support myself. I felt that was the only way that my family would finally see me as a separate individual. Now though, in hindsight, I realize that it was just my pride. There is some truth in the Bible verse, 'Pride goeth before a fall.' Vanity and pride destroys everyone in the end—I had just hoped that it hadn't destroyed Zane.

So I mailed a small draft to the charitable organization and took the train into Boston for the dinner. It's hardly necessary to state that I attended and the first person I saw once Avery started introducing me at the gathering was Zane. She smiled at me from across the room and I smiled back.

"Oh, no," Avery said as he tried to pull me aside but I wouldn't take my eyes off Zane—couldn't. While the other women, both young and old, were dressed in a modest subdued manner befitting their place in society, Zane stood out like a blossoming rose among daises. She was rouged and her deep-blue dress revealed a great deal of cleavage; I imagined how it would feel when I buried my face between her rounded breasts. Her black hair was a mass of curls piled on her head in an artless manner and a string of pearls was wound through the tresses. She was the loveliest, most desirable woman I had ever seen, and desire her, I did.

"Introduce me to her," I said as Zane began to move across the room towards us. Damn, she made me want her just by the way she moved. A man could imagine holding onto her hips and pounding himself into her knowing she would enjoy it as much as he did.

"She's trouble—I'm telling you, Adam. She's soon to be engaged to Morty Otis—everyone knows it except, it seems, Zane from the way she behaves. Stay…" But Avery said no more as Zane was standing in front of me.

Keeping her clear hazel eyes on me, she said, "Who is your friend, Avery, my dear? Another 'Shylock' in your daddy's firm?"

I couldn't help but laugh—she amused me.

"No. This is Mr. Adam Cartwright, an old school friend. Adam, this is Miss Zane Vandeweghe."

"A pleasure," I said and she put out a hand covered with a pristine satin glove up over her elbows. About her wrist was a sapphire and diamond bracelet. I took her hand and she looked at me in a mischievous manner. "And may I say—and I hope I'm not being too forward- you are the most beautiful woman in the room by far."

Zane laughed with delight and those around us looked on with disapproval. Avery was obviously uncomfortable. "In this company, I don't have to try very hard, Mr. Cartwright," she said leaning in conspiratorially. Oh, Zane, we were partners in crime; you and I had so much in common.

A few minutes later, we were called in to dinner and once I found my place, indicated by an elegantly engraved place card in a silver holder, I found to my delight that Zane was seated across from me. No floral arrangement or candelabra prevented me from gazing at her. Looking at me with a sly expression, she adjusted the bodice of her dress, pulling the shoulders down a bit more. Zane knew what effect she was having, not just on me but on every man who was near her. I don't know how I would react if it happened today, if a lush 18 year old woman so blatantly expressed her interest in me but back then, I was flattered-and hard. Now that I consider, even today I would react the same way. The only difference is that I wouldn't follow-up the way I did that night.

I played out my role of the single man, politely conversing with the two women on either side of me. On my right was a stuffy matron with glittering diamonds hanging on her as if she was a Christmas tree and they, the decorations. Her large shelf of a bosom threatened to drop into her soup bowl. But she was influential and spoke of her daughter, Miriam, who sat a few chairs down from Zane. Miriam was a lovely blonde who, I learned, was having her coming-out in a few months. Avery was invited. Perhaps I too would like to attend even though, she noted, she wasn't aware of any Cartwrights in Boston. Was my family from New York, perhaps?

I explained to her that my father was a rancher in Nevada and that I was apprenticing with the architectural firm of Townes & Sullivan. "Oh…you work at designing…buildings? Homes?" Mrs. Gaines, as that was her name, asked.

"Edifices," I responded. "I create blueprints for those who want higher buildings—ones that illustrate the concept of the 'axis mundi' and other plans for those who desire palatial homes—opulent homes that bespeak a person's status in the world."

She looked confused which was my intent. "And there's money in that?" she asked.

"Quite a bit actually." I smiled broadly and then I added that my family also provided lumber for the railways and there was quite a bit of money in that as well. That she understood. Mrs. Gaines nodded and smiled broadly, informing me that she would have her personal secretary send me an invitation to her daughter's debutante ball and that I must meet Miriam before the evening was over. Then she went


	5. Chapter 5

On my left at table was a young woman who chatted first with the older gentleman on her left until Mrs. Gaines began to fill her mouth with food and her mind with marrying off her daughter to me. Then the young woman turned to me, smiling.

"I don't believe I know you but you're a friend of Avery Norcross, correct?" she asked.

You may wonder why I bother to relate these ordinary dinner conversations but it is to show how Zane was exempt from the conventions of society; she was never ordinary or boring. Even as I carried on conversations with my dining companions, I would glance at Zane who was entertaining the men on both sides of her with what I'm sure were dazzling topics, perhaps even wicked as the older man's face was flushed -I'm sure than an equal amount of blood went to his nether region as well. The younger man next to her seemed to jockey for a position that allowed him to look down her cleavage and Zane seemed to teasingly allow him glimpses. But she would look at me, smile and press her gloved hand delicately to her bodice. I wanted to rise and walk around the table, grab her up and sweeping aside the crystal and china, lay her on the grand table, push up her skirts, dip my face between her spread thighs and enjoy her sweetness, savoring every drop that exuded from her as I did the cherry confits later served up for dessert.

But instead I politely answered the young women with "Yes. Avery is a friend of mine; we were in school together. My name is Adam Cartwright."

She smiled shyly. "I know. I must confess that I looked at your place card."

She was lovely and quite pretty with auburn hair and brown eyes. I reached over and picked up her place card.

"Miss Joan McGuire." I placed it back in its stand. "Very nice to meet you, Miss McGuire." She giggled and bowed her head and then looked up at me coyly. I remember returning my gaze then to Zane who was watching me. She didn't smile but turned her attention back to the older man next to her and continued to chat animatedly. I sensed disapproval.

Miss McGuire noticed. "Do you know Zane well?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I asked if you knew Zane-Miss Vandeweghe-well?"

"No. I just met her earlier this evening. Why do you ask?" My curiosity was roused.

"Oh, well…" She blushed. "I just noticed, I mean it seems that you and she keep glancing at each other and Morty is watching closely-but not as closely as his father."

"Morty?" Then I remembered that Avery had said that Zane was almost engaged to someone named Morty.

"Yes. Morty Otis. That's he looking so insulted over there" She motioned in Morty's direction and I looked to see a pale, young man with light blond hair looking as though he smelled something offensive, his upper lip slightly curled. He was closely watching Zane and following her gaze wherever she happened to look. As many times as she had glanced at me, I could understand why 'Morty" might find me an offensive element. "His father," Joan continued, "is third from the end opposite to our right." I started to look but Joan grabbed my arm and then realizing what she had done, quickly released me. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cartwright. He is watching you and would know we were discussing him if you happened to turn and look his way."

"Thank you," I offered. Silence fell between us.

"Are you in love with Miss Vandeweghe?" I must have looked surprised because she quickly added, "I suppose that sounded awful but it's just that all the men are in love with Zane. That's my father sitting beside her and acting the fool over her and I know that there will be an argument between my parents on the ride home about Zane. And it won't be the first time she's caused discord."

"I take it you don't care for Miss Vandeweghe."

Miss McGuire put out her chin defiantly. "No, I don't. I don't like her at all. She uses her beauty as a weapon and she has had an odd upbringing. Her parents are nouveau riche and because they have more money than many of the established families, well, it gives her a certain power and respectability she doesn't deserve. Everyone's conjecturing on who she'll marry and why anyone would want to marry someone who is so….so…unmarriageable."

"And why do you think she doesn't deserve respectability and is unmarriageable?"

"Because she doesn't care who she hurts—or who she carries on with. Morty is so hopelessly in love with her—she doesn't know how fortunate she is to win his heart-and look how she behaves? She's a….a…'bohemian' and promotes unconventional behavior—she and her artist friends who don't have a penny to their names—well, they carry on until all hours, I've heard. And she's free with her body. Her parents hand out money to the artists all the time—patronize them-let Zane host the 'parasites' in the Vandeweghe home. She espouses free love and such and not confining herself—her affections—to just one man. I believe she even practices what she preaches. It's said that she poses nude for her artist friends and has even explored being with women. I don't know why someone such as she is even allowed among polite society. Why once she told me—and I never knew whether to take her seriously or not because she laughed afterwards-that she lost her vir…" Miss McGuire looked at me, her mouth dropped open in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why I said all that. Please forgive me. I shouldn't have said such unkind things about Zane or be gossiping but…well, it's the truth and she'll tell you the same things herself so I'm not really telling you anything that…" She dropped her eyes and flushed in embarrassment.

"I've always admired honesty and a person who can give themselves an honest appraisal. I now look forward even more to further conversation with Miss Vandeweghe. I'm sure she's most interesting."

Miss McGuire's breast heaved with disdain and remorse and her mouth was grim. I looked across the table at Zane and she was watching me, ignoring the attempts of Mr. McGuire and her other dining companion to regain her attention. I slightly raised my glass of wine to acknowledge her and Zane smiled, raising her glass in kind. But my gesture didn't go unnoticed by Miss McGuire or, I'm sure by Morty, his father and anyone else who found their attention transfixed on her. Zane was radiant and it seemed that the whole universe revolved around Zane Vandeweghe—at least my universe did


	6. Chapter 6

After dinner we, the guests, were treated with a mediocre piano recital by a middle-aged woman, Mrs. Franklin Rice, whose abundantly fleshy thighs overhung the piano bench. I found myself trying to search for Zane while not looking as if I were. Then I noticed that Morty Otis was also absent and my heart fell. I could imagine them sneaking out together, laughing together at escaping the boring evening. Had Zane used me to make Morty jealous, used me to elevate his passion for her? I had to smile at my gullibility; Zane had played me as a fisherman does a fish—for sport and amusement.

After the piano recital mercifully ended, Miss McGuire sang a few songs; she had a lovely voice. She often glanced at me as she stood with perfect posture, clasping her hands in front of her as she sang some operatic pieces—those that wouldn't be thought of as cheap. I would give her smile whenever she glanced my way and she would respond with a small smile and continue singing. But then I noticed that Morty Oyis came back into the room—alone—and sat down in an empty chair in the crowded room, his jaw set.

I excused myself to the seated people whose view I blocked when I left the room to look for Zane. She wasn't in the outer room nor the foyer and I asked the butler, who bustled around me asking if I needed anything, for my cape and hat. I was about to leave when Avery caught me.

"Adam, I noticed at dinner that you seemed delighted by Joan McGuire. She is a lovely girl. I can introduce you to her father. I think you might enjoy her company and if you'll agree to stay the night with my family, I can take you over there tomorrow."

I couldn't understand why he was saying that—didn't try. "Yes, she's a lovely girl and perhaps I could meet her father some other time. Thank you, Avery, for the offer and for wrangling this invitation for me but I think I'll be going." I put out my hand and Avery took it but only to hold me there, to prevent me from rushing out after Zane. He knew where I was going.

"Adam, are you sure you know what you're doing? Zane is…she's broken many hearts," Avery said wistfully. He seemed to be looking off into his past.

"Yours included?" I asked although I knew the answer.

He chuckled but it wasn't humorous. "Yes. I suppose so. I did try to…'court' her but she wouldn't have me and yet…just be careful, Adam. Zane doesn't share her heart but I've heard that she does her body. Don't mistake the one for the other." Then he released my hand and turned to go back.

But I wasn't deterred. I stepped outside. Zane was nowhere to be seen. I put on my top hat and my cape; the evening was chilly and I would have to walk back to my inexpensive hotel room since after my earlier donation to the charity, I had to watch my money. There was no taking a hack but after a few yards, a buggy pulled up beside me, the driver climbed down from his seat and opened the door. I looked inside and in the light from the two interior lamps, I saw Zane Vandeweghe smiling at me.

"Won't you accept my hospitality, Mr. Cartwright?" She moved over slightly on the seat and smiling, I climbed in and sat down.

"Adam—not Mr. Cartwright."

"Adam," she said and smiled.

I was going to thank her for having pity on a pedestrian but I had no chance to say anything more as Zane leaned over and pressed her mouth to mine and all my hunger for her came to the forefront. I was young and passionate and all I could think of was Zane and possessing her so I pulled her to me and while the cab rolled down the quiet streets of Boston, I took Zane on the leather seat and the only sounds other than the wheels on the cobblestones and the occasional sounds of passing traffic, were Zane's small cries of pleasure and my final groan of release.

~ 0 ~

The buggy pulled up to a mansion with well-kept lawns and stopped in the circular drive. I admired the Georgian architecture before I climbed out and helped Zane down. She pressed against me and kissed me again once she was on her feet.

"You see," she said, "I desire you even when I'm not on my back." She laughed and taking my hand, began to lead me up the walk to the front doors. The driver pulled the buggy around to the back drive and I realized that this was Zane's home.

I stopped and she turned and looked at me as if surprised.

"It's late, and I should leave," I said, "but I have to see you again."

"Oh, Adam. Don't be foolish. Come in—please. Please." Zane twined her arms about my neck and pulled me down to kiss me. Her mouth promised even more pleasures so I went with her into the large manor. Once we stepped into the foyer, the housemaid bustled around us, taking our capes as well as my hat and then Zane dismissed her and took my hand again and began to lead me to the stairs; we passed a room with an open door and a man's voice called out for Zane. She continued to hold my hand and pulled me inside the open door. A robust man in a satin smoking jacket sat in a leather wingback chair next to a grand fireplace smoking a cigar and holding a brandy snifter.

"Henry, I want you to meet Adam Cartwright. Adam, this is my father."

Mr. Vandeweghe rose from his chair, putting down his brandy, and shook my hand. He seemed delighted to meet me and kissed Zane on her cheek. Then he asked her if she had met me at the dinner. When she replied that she had, her father inquired if she had a nice time and had he missed anything by not attending. Zane laughed and held onto her father's arm.

"You missed nothing of any value. It was a boring charity dinner like always and I had to escape the 'entertainment.' How I would have rather stayed home and read—or invited a friend to share my time. But it was all worth it because I met Adam. He's staying over."

"Well, have a nice evening then. Perhaps I'll see you at breakfast, Adam. We can talk further then."

I was dumfounded when Zane told "Henry" goodnight, kissed his cheek and he went back to his chair and brandy. Zane tugged on my hand and softly said my name. I followed her out but when we reached the stairs, I stopped.

Zane…I know that…" I didn't quite how to express myself. I could only gesture toward the den we had just left. I really was a country bumpkin and I felt my father in my head. He would be appalled that I was in such a situation.

"What Adam?" Her eyes were large and questioning. Zane saw nothing unusual.

"Your father took my staying over rather complacently. And, Zane, you're assuming that I want to stay over. Do you expect me to sneak down the hall to your room tonight? To be a part of deceiving your father? Or am I just invited to stay over as any guest might." The world was spinning faster than I could handle-I was dizzy—off balance. I don't care for that, I need sure-footing in life.

Zane laughed delightedly "Oh, Adam, you're so provincial."

I was offended and confused. After all, I considered myself forward-thinking and had discussed many of the unconventional beliefs and philosophies of the times. But discussion is one thing—embracing them wholeheartedly is another. I realized then that I was a hypocrite—a detestable thing. At least Zane wasn't one, wasn't sneaking about to lay with me but still…her father allowing me to fornicate with Zane under his roof

"Now don't look like that. My father knows you're going to stay with me. My mother, when she sees you in the morning will know as well. We don't have secrets in my family and although you may think it's outrageous, I was raised to believe that all our desires are natural and that we do ourselves no favors when we deny what we want. And I want you." She turned her face up to me, that beautiful face and although my first impulse was to leave and stay far away from Zane, my body wanted her, and since I was young and infatuated and –most importantly, decidedly aroused—I went upstairs with Zane and with the assistance of her maid, a girl of about Zane's age who had been dozing in the corner when we arrived, Zane quickly shed her voluminous clothes. It embarrassed me in a manner as Bernice, the maid, kept glancing at me, stifling a grin, whenever more of Zane's body was exposed until finally Zane stood before me like an alabaster statue—perfect in every way except where the cruel boning of her corset had left red lines around her waist.

"Will there be anything else, Miss Zane?" Bernice asked as she gathered together the underclothes. Bernice glanced at me again but I still clasped my hands in front of me to avoid embarrassing myself with my hardness at Zane's slow disrobing.

"No, that will be all." Zane smiled at me—barely acknowledging the woman.

"Yes, Miss." Bernice glanced at me, giving me a knowing smile and I had to wonder how many times this little scene had been played before.

"Oh, one thing. Bring us breakfast in bed," Zane said, not looking at the maid who finally left. Then Zane began to undress me but I quickly took care of it and then, sweeping her up in my arms, I put her on the bed and climbed on top of her. I was hungry for her—soft, supple flesh under my hands, hot mouth on mine- and I hungrily took her in the large, soft bed and thought of nothing else but her as she surrendered to me again and again until I finally slept— completely spent.

That was the start of Zane and me—that was the start of our love affair. I had to learn to adjust my thinking, not to judge her when she abandoned the rules of society, the rules that my father had always drummed into me and my brothers.

That next morning—and I still remember with a groan-I woke with Zane's soft mouth and hands on me and then, after I had turned her on her back and enjoyed the moist, accommodating depths of her and the feel of her legs locked about my waist, Bernice walked in with our breakfast, asked for us to excuse her, and left the tray on the vanity. I remember expecting Zane to sharply reprimand Bernice but none of that occurred; Zane continued as if it wasn't unusual. I did notice though that Bernice gave my bobbing ass an appraising glance as she walked out and closed the door behind her. But that "incident" wasn't all that surprised me about Zane and her family.


	7. Chapter 7

Reserve was not one of Zane's virtues. We sat in bed to eat after I fetched the breakfast tray. The covers were pulled to her waist and her pink-tipped breasts exposed. I lightly pinched one and she pulled away slightly and then slapped my hand. "Do not take such liberties, Mr. Cartwright," she said with feigned insult.

"Modest is a virtue, Zane? You sit here naked from the waist down as if it was an everyday occurrence. "

"It is and everyday occurrence—and chastity is a virtue as well but I don't see you asking me why I don't possess it" Zane was right of course—I was a hypocrite—I didn't mind fucking her or enjoying her glorious nakedness, I just didn't want it to be before an audience.. "Bernice often serves me breakfast in bed and I don't sleep in nightclothes unless it's very cold. And why should I show false modesty with you? Haven't we touched each other everywhere and seen each other in rather embarrassing states-at least embarrassing the morning after. Why should I cover up when you've delved between my legs and I've shown such intense feelings—moaning and giving in to my basic emotions? Wouldn't that be dissembling?"

"I'm not talking about that…well, in a way I am…but when Bernice walked in on us and I was…well, I think we should have stopped and pulled the sheets up over ourselves."

"Why? Bernice knows what my body looks like. After all, she helps me dress and undress every day and why should I deny her the pleasure of viewing you—you are quite well-made, you know." Zane smiled mischievously and pulled slightly at my chest hair. "A bit hairier than I like but I find it suits you. You can be a bit of a savage with your hunger."

"Zane, I'm serious. Making love is a private affair and I don't care to be watched."

"Sometimes, Adam…" Zane shook her head but then smiled at me. "All right, my darling. I will try very hard to remember that you are a private man. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable but really, Adam, I didn't want you to stop."

I couldn't argue with her over that.

~ 0 ~

I spent all my weekends with Zane. Townes & Sullivan closed at noon on Saturdays and then I would ride the train in from New York. Zane would be impatiently waiting at the station. I would disembark and when we saw each other, well, it was wonderful—she was all I lived for anymore. But the more I learned about Zane, the more of an enigma she became; I never really understood her. If I had, well, things may have been different. But maybe not, as later she told me—maybe not.

Zane's mother was "Agatha," not "mom" or "Mother" or anything else just as her father was "Henry." When I asked her why she called them by their first names she said it was because those were their names and then she smiled at the simplicity of her answer. I told her that I found it disrespectful and she was genuinely puzzled by that.

"Why is it disrespectful?"

It was early in our relationship and we were walking down one of the streets of Boston, stopping under the streetlamps to look in shop windows. Her buggy driver followed us as we meandered, ever ready to drive us to the Vandeweghe mansion whenever I crooked my finger in his direction. We had eaten a fine dinner—pheasant stuffed with chestnuts and apricots—a dinner I couldn't easily afford but had managed since my father's bank draft had arrived earlier in the week. Later I would think about my landlady—perhaps there were repairs I could make such as hammering the loose stairs, painting a vacant room, something in exchange for a few days' rent. But at the moment I was sated although not yet carnally, and Zane suggested we take a "postprandial stroll."

"Because parents aren't on the same level as their children. Being on first name basis makes them peers and it's difficult to punish a peer. Someone has to be in authority."

"Oh, Adam, must you be so critical? If I have a good relationship with my parents, what does it matter what I call them? And did you consider that they don't need to punish me? I am reasonable and we discuss things. Next, you'll start again about their permissiveness on letting you stay nights with me. I've explained all that to you and you just can't seem to understand. Would you rather my father take you out a shoot you for staying with me? "

I couldn't understand. As much as I enjoyed the nights of blissful passion with Zane, it always made me uncomfortable to see her parents when she and I were going upstairs to fornicate or the morning after. Zane said that her parents were free-thinkers, that Agatha was a zealous suffragette and spent most of her time working with other groups in the east promoting the rights of women. Agatha was an intelligent woman who wrote pamphlets and stood on the streets of Boston with other like-minded women handing the leaflets out to passersby. Zane had shown me some. The main subjects were about how America's male-dominated government denied women their rights making them equal to a beast in servitude to a man. A woman was nothing more than chattel to be raped, beaten and ill-used by their husbands. Her other complaint was that women had few inheritance rights if there were males in the family.

Early in our relationship and after a particular rambunctious coupling, I asked. Zane if she feared finding herself with child. She reached one delicate arm over her head and caressed my cheek with the other and informed me that she had read her mother's pamphlets devoted to methods of birth control and of the various ways a woman could prevent or easily terminate a pregnancy. I suppose that was her answer to the question but in my secret heart, I hoped Zane would become round and full with my child and she would then marry me.

Nevertheless, Agatha was often away campaigning for one law or another to be changed or amended and I asked Zane why she didn't go along. Didn't she feel the same as her mother? Didn't she often tell me that a woman has the right to do whatever she likes with her body and shouldn't she preach what she practices? Of course, she had said," I can even spread my legs for a lusty, hard cowboy and allow him to ride me as hard as he would his horse—as long as he doesn't use spurs." Is it any surprise why I adored her?

But in reply to my question about traveling with her mother, Zane replied that she had done so when younger but after having horse dung flung at her, at Agatha, and the other women and being called whores and sluts, she declined to go again and Agatha didn't force her. Besides, Zane had added with an odd look on her face, Agatha was once arrested along with all the other women and spent two nights in a jail in Hartford, Connecticut before Henry was informed and arranged bond. Zane and Henry took the train to fetch Agatha home. Zane looked away from me when she related how her mother said they were all stripped and searched, humiliated by having their orifices checked for some specious reason, with a matron's probing fingers. When the group of women—as a form of protest-had refused to eat saying they would rather starve for their cause, they were strapped into a chair and force-fed with rubber tubing pushed down their throats and liquid poured into a funnel; her mother's voice was raw and painful to hear for a few days; that had made Zane afraid, she said.—made her a coward. I took her in my arms and said that no, she was my fearless love, the only woman I knew who would flaunt conventions to be with someone she wanted. She had softly added, her face close to mine, "Someone I love—and hold most dear."

As for Henry, her father, I couldn't understand him. A man usually wants to protect his daughter from men who would take sexual advantage of her and in Boston society where staidness and Puritanical views were the norm, I found it unusual that he would condone Zane's notorious promiscuity; I knew I wasn't the first man to share her bed and was curious. I asked her who was the first and how many had there been before me.

"Should I ask you how many women you've had?" Zane said as she lay on her stomach in the bed. I had been running my fingers up and down the valley of her spine, from her neck to the cleft of her buttocks. I had also kissed the spilt globe of flesh.

"I lost count at 200," I said and she laughed in her manner and rolled over, smiling.

"I should have known that from your experienced hands. But why would you want to know how many lovers I've had?"

I had to think for a moment. "In case I'm meeting one of them at some event—I want to know if he's one."

"Why? Would you strike them—or me?"

I felt anger rise; didn't she realize how important she was to me-and how I hated the idea of anyone knowing something about me or Zane and my not being aware of it. I shucked the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed, thinking of leaving but then I felt Zane's soft breasts against my back, her hands snaking around to my chest and her warm lips kissing the nape of my neck. I couldn't resist her and turning, tumbled her back on the bed. "Zane, I want you just for myself."

"I am yours. Answer me this though and I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Have you ever loved a woman who gave herself to you as obligingly as I have?"

"Never before." I had no trouble answering that. All the girls I had loved or thought I loved, were of good families and conventional upbringing.

"So you don't really love me?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? I said 'never before' but you've changed everything-I love you, Zane and I want to marry you."

"There are so many things we want but can't have—so many things." And Zane pulled me down to her and kissed me tenderly, gently, and again I was enthralled and the subject was dropped. It was only later that I learned the truth about Zane and her lovers—and deduced why Henry had allowed me—a struggling architect-almost welcomed me into his home and his daughter's bed. Henry Vandeweghe was a conniving, calculating son-of-a-bitch who used his daughter to further his fortunes and social standing and I shouldn't have underestimated him; I knew he hadn't accrued his fortune through naiveté and sheer luck and I should have kept that in mind. I look back now and wonder why I never figured it out but I suppose that since Zane was the only thing I ever thought about, the focus of my life, the reason for everything I did including my architectural designs and my efforts to become a first-rate architect, that I couldn't achieve the distance to see the whole picture—the whole plan. I was a fool and hold myself partially responsible for what happened to her.


	8. Chapter 8

All the gossip and rumors that Joan McGuire had poured out the night Zane came into my life were exaggerations. Yes, Zane had a progressive education, was sent away to a private school at the age of twelve, having been educated by her parents up to that point. Agatha stated to her impressionable child that women need to fight for their rights—that freedom and liberty were not just given by "tyrants" but are heard-won. I discovered Zane felt she was a huge disappointment to Agatha because she didn't care for standing on street corners passing out incendiary missives and marching in front of men's clubs, insisting they allow female members. As Agatha spent more time away from home and Henry couldn't be with Zane during the day, she was left in the company of the housemaids. That was when the decision was reached to send her to The Salzman School for Girls. The program of study was loosely based on the educational theories of Christian Gotthiff Salzman mainly because Mary Wollstonecraft translated his treatise, "Elements of Morality-For the Use of Children," into English and Agatha worshipped Mary Wollstonecraft—her word was gospel as far as Agatha was concerned—so that was where Zane was sent.

"I was heart-broken," Zane told me one night as I held her in the dark of her bed. "I knew I was sent away because I wasn't…I wasn't a soldier for women's rights. I was a disappointment so I did my best to learn as much as I could. I wanted to be as brilliant as Agatha."

I discovered Zane spoke three languages besides English-French, Italian and German. She said the languages were taught so they could read philosophers in their native tongue. "I told the other girls that I learned the language so quickly so I could have lovers from every country." Zane had laughed but there was a sadness about her so I held her closer. I wanted to protect her. Didn't she know the harm she was doing to herself by allowing the scurrilous rumors about her exist—even encouraging them? I could marry her—take her away from Boston and we could live in New York, I told her. I wasn't wealthy but I could take an additional job to support us. Why Mr. Townes had told me just yesterday that I would soon be getting more than a token salary.

"No, Adam—you don't understand anything." But I thought I did understand. But I was a damn fool and she was right.

Zane wasn't as promiscuous as the gossip had led me to believe despite the fact that she spread her legs the first night we met and later, eagerly took me in her mouth. Part of what Joan McGuire had told me was true-Zane had posed partially nude for art students—"I was Leda, barely covered with a draping, and the swan kept squawking," she said. "They placed him between my thighs and put some grain on my belly in the hopes of keeping him there so they could sketch him but that awful creature nipped at me and I shoved him off—down and feathers flew everywhere! I even found one in my crotch." I had laughed at that. But there had been no orgies in her past, no random copulating and if Zane is to be believed and I believe her—only three men were before me and only one had I met—Morty Otis. So to amuse myself during my off time during the week, I would devise horrible manners of his death—just as a mental exercise.

I was happy with Zane and she was happy with me and we spent as much time together as we could. We attended galas and dances and the opera but she declined as many invitations as she accepted in order to spend our time locked in her room, reveling in carnal delights, luxuriating in the bloom of our love for we were in love and I knew every curve of Zane's body, every warm, moist place that gave her pleasure—and me as well; I had buried my face between her legs and relished the ambrosia of the gods—a new sensation for me and a dizzying one. And Zane thrilled me in kind.

~ 0 ~

I was blissfully happy and I know now that joy is short-lived so relish every moment; if nothing else, take this from my tale.

I was at my drafting table, confirming the dimensions of an office building we were designing, when Avery Norcross walked into the back room where I worked. I was glad to see him.

"I had business here—a deposition—so I thought I'd stop by—can you leave for lunch?

He seemed uneasy. I could leave, I said and told Mr. Sullivan that I would finish up upon my return. Usually, if I left, I was given a half hour but he must have recognized Avery's name for I was told to take my time.

Lunch was awkward and Avery wouldn't meet my eyes, kept looking down or around the rom. "What is it, Avery? What are you trying _not_ to tell me?"

He sighed and put down his fork. "Adam, I…we know that a man can behave a certain way and it doesn't damage his reputation but for women, it's different." He looked at me but I didn't react; I knew it was about Zane and fear crept up the back of my neck. "All right—I'll speak plain. Rumors are flying that you and Zane spent nights locked together in her room. Her father has put an end to it-she's to marry Morty Otis and that…I don't know how to say this, Adam, but it seems that despite Zane's reputation, James Otis and Henry Vandeweghe have reached a settlement—I suppose it would be called a dowry elsewhere—and it seems that the soon-to-be joined families will be a force to be reckoned with."

I sat back s if someone had shoved me-it couldn't be. Zane couldn't marry Morty Otis; he was pale and thin—lifeless, it seemed. Zane, when she had told me that she had lain with Morty Otis hadn't lingered over it, hadn't even implied that she was in love with him—or had any feelings for him at all—it was just a fact. Zane wouldn't marry Otis. She wouldn't. I would go into Boston as usual and pretend I hadn't heard about her and Morty—Avery could be wrong—had to be wrong. Gossip and rumors were just that—unfounded and passed on by envious people. I had to hear it from Zane's lips and I would go to Boston this Saturday evening as if everything between us was the same.

That following cold Saturday, the snow just beginning to drift down through the early darkness of winter, neither Zane nor the Vandeweghe buggy waited at the station to meet me. I put it down to the snow and the biting wind and the icy cobblestones—I didn't want to consider another reason. I waited for a few minutes but the train pulled out and the platform began to empty. It was too cold to stand and wait so I walked to the Vandeweghe home on the edge of town but I had a bitter taste—like metal- in my throat-I hadn't eaten since breakfast—there had been more work than I had anticipated and I had rushed to make the train. I put it down to that but there was also a seed of fear in the pit of my gut. Avery wouldn't lie to me—I knew what he said was true.

Few people were on the streets. I carried my satchel as I ducked my head against the wind, holding my overcoat tight at the high neck with the other hand, taking step after careful step so as not to slip on the icy walk until I was finally at the huge curved drive. The widows of the house glowed with golden light. I pulled the bell and waited. The door was partially opened as protection from the cold and I could feel the warmth emanate from the inside. It was the housekeeper's face that peeked out.

"Oh, Mr. Cartwright." She looked embarrassed. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"I came to see Zane—Miss Vandeweghe. She's in, isn't she? She's well, I hope."

"Um….please wait just a moment, would you?" She shut the door on me. Less than a minute later, she opened it again and ushered me in but what she said caused my heart to drop. "Mr. Vandeweghe would like to speak with you. You can leave your satchel here." I put it down in the foyer. "Please…this way." The housekeeper led me to the den and motioned for me to go in and then she rushed off in her white, starched apron.

The previous times I had been in the den, Henry Vandeweghe had me sit, gave me expensive brandy or whiskey and a fine Turkish cigar. We discussed the paintings on the paneled walls—scenes of hunts and grand horses-and his many books which he admitted, laughing, he hadn't read; I was familiar with most—had read them. He stated that he was impressed. We also discussed railway companies and the business of the Ponderosa—not as vast as today but large enough to impress. Being a self-made man, I felt Henry had a healthy respect for what my father and I had accomplished. But this time he left me standing while he continued to sit like a king on a throne about to order my decapitation or to be drawn and quartered. I didn't remove my hat.

The room was overly warm; the snow on my hat and shoulders quickly melted; he didn't ask me to remove my coat—obviously I wasn't to stay.

"So you came to see Zane." It wasn't a question but a statement of fact.

"Yes."

"Well, she's gone—with her mother. They are staying at our country estate—I'm sure you know where that is but I hope you have no intention to try to see her." He sighed heavily and took another sip of whiskey. "I'm afraid that Zane has left the dirty work to me—that of sending you off. Unfortunate that, but she is young and fickle. I—and her mother—have always allowed our daughter to rule herself—she usually comes to her senses but this time she has needed guidance from both Agatha and myself—we want what's best for our daughter. No one is young and beautiful forever—there is the future to consider Zane has decided that her past behavior with you has been…inappropriate and…unfortunate. She wishes to sever all ties to you."

"I want to hear it from her lips."

"Well, you can't and you won't. Zane is to be married to Mortimer Otis—they've always been in love and for the past five years, her father and I have talked about an alliance, merging the two families."

"And fortunes, correct? I'm guessing James Otis made some unfortunate investments. Zane would be one of his better, and more profitable, purchases."

"Keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Cartwright. You are speaking of my daughter and my close friend. Zane is not being sold as you suggest."

I wanted to smash his face-he looked so goddamn smug.

"I was part of a plan, wasn't I?"

"Plan?"

"Yes—plan. You must have had a plan. You're not stupid. You allowed—no-you -encouraged me to spend all those nights with Zane for a reason—I'm just not sure what that is. You are a cold-hearted bastard. You're her father-you knew what we were doing up there. Why didn't you stop us—tell her that her behavior—my behavior was unacceptable in your home? I kept expecting that. Why not? There must have been a reason."

"I don't have to explain anything to you-you've served your purpose." He stood up; I was being dismissed. "Leave my home and don't try to contact Zane. She doesn't want to hear from you and if I must, I'll see you thrown in jail—or meet with an unfortunate accident."

I said nothing. Henry Vandeweghe stood in front of me-I considered knocking him down. He was larger, heavier but I was quicker and defter. I clenched my fists at my sides—I itched to smash in his face, to feel the solid bone give under my knuckles but thought better of it—I didn't want to have to wire my father for bail. And Townes & Sullivan would surely release me and I wanted to stay in the area in case Zane wrote or visited New York. That was my hope, that she would seek me out. Her father be damned.

But Zane never did any of that. I traveled to Boston three more times but it was always the same. I would ring the bell and when no one answered, I would pound on the door but it was never opened to me again—never.


	9. Chapter 9

**I wanted to give this section a feel of immediacy so I changed the tense. I hope it works.**

Now that I'm a relatively wealthy man, I stay at the Fairmont Hotel—the same hotel where Zane allegedly shot and killed Wade Curtis. On arriving in Boston, I notice from observation that my two suits are not in fashion—stances are higher and suit jackets tighter; they look awkward to my eye—their suits too tight and not properly proportioned. Perhaps it's my penchant for design, proportion that leads me to think it—or merely familiarity but I have no time to visit a tailor and have a suit jacket fitted or the matching pants hemmed. So I bathe, shave and dress and once back in the hotel lobby, first ask the desk clerk to have a wire sent to the Ponderosa informing my family of my safe arrival and then, after printing out the message and leaving a proper tip, I ask about the Otis/Curtis murder case. I say I read something about it on my trip from the west but the newest paper I picked up had next to nothing except an article about the inquest coming in two days. I don't tell him about the article in _The Boston Weekly_ that referred to Zane as the "Vandeweghe Whore." The desk clerk is happy to update me—eager to spread salacious gossip.

Much to everyone's disappointment, he tells me, Zane hadn't spent even a night in jail. "Money talks, you know," he says, "and since she married not only a rich man but a law firm, some big-shot lawyer had Mrs. Otis out and back at the Otis mansion in just a few hours. Said there was no real proof against her—imagine that—the woman had a gun and was the only one in the room with Mr. Curtis when he's shot and the lawyer gets away with saying there's no real proof—hell, they've even put off the coroner's inquest, just stalling but that's what lawyers do, I guess. They've got to earn their money somehow. Anyway, she's staying at her in-laws home and not cooling her heels in jail having to eat bread and water like an ordinary criminal. I bet she's drinking champagne and eating caviar and celebrating with her family and spreading her legs for the lawyers—she probably has the whole firm lined up at her door and is so full that when the next man pops her, the others' leavings flushes out around his cock. Let me tell you—I wouldn't mind sticking it to her myself but if I'd shot anyone, they'd lock my ass up and toss away the key. That's what'd happen to me."

I thank him for the information even though I want to grab him by the shirtfront, drag him across the counter knocking over the inkwell, and break his face and threaten to make him eat his own cock after I slice it off although, I'd say, it's probably not much of a mouthful. But I don't; I'm in Boston, not out west. "My pleasure," he says, self-satisfied—and I go out to the street. Boston has grown; the sun is overly warm for this time of year and I'm regretting my wool suit. I hail a passing hackney cab.

"The Otis residence-James Otis, Esquire." I say as I climb in. The bustling streets are filled with hacks and wagons and the walkways full of people. Everyone goes about their lives—their mundane lives and suddenly a life without drama doesn't seem so awful. I wonder-should I have stayed in Nevada? And suddenly I feel an intense longing for Mart Edith and Abner—it's almost painful. I want to hold my son and hear his joyous laughter as I play silly games with him. I can almost feel his silky, dark hair beneath my lips and the warmth of his cheeks and the sweet smell of him. And his tiny arms about my neck. And then there's Mary Edith's gentle smile; she forgives me everything The urge to leave Boston and return home takes hold of me and I feel panic—what if they need me? Abner might wander into the pig pen and that boar would tear him apart. I wrestle with my worry. But Abner and Mary Edith are with my family—all is fine. I think of Zane and her situation and consider that perhaps—in some way—I can help. I'm not without resources and I feel in my gut that Zane is without friends. A person can't live the way she does—or did-and have close acquaintances. She must be anathema to Boston society—probably shunned as a pariah.

The Otis home is impressive although it isn't on the outskirts of town as I remember the Vandeweghe home was. But by now, the city has crept out; it may have swallowed up the surrounding Vanderweghe property. I tell the driver to wait and he obliges, tipping his hat, imagining the fare. For all I know, I might be turned away, unable to see Zane and so take the hack back to the hotel. I'm surprised when the butler who answers the huge double-doors grants me entrance—even takes my hat- and leads me to a grand sitting room. There are portraits of men and women, some aged with haughty expressions—some young and beautiful, looking either seductive or innocent—whichever expression the artist chose to capture, hanging one the papered walls. Fine china statuary and bronzes are on every flat surface and a crystal chandelier hangs from the middle of the ceiling. Is an even larger one in the dining room? I imagine the candles' glow diffracting through the pure crystals and sending rainbows about the room like magical fairies from a children's book. Abner has a favorite book of nursery rhymes that's filled with pictures of dogs and children and cats. He delights when I say the type of animal on the page and he points to it proudly, making an imitative animal sound. We have difficulty when it comes to the goose-I feel foolish making an un-gooselike honk for him to imitate. Abner chortles at the awkward sound.

I stand when an older woman of about sixty comes in. She is plump but well-dressed in a patterned silk with a strand of pearls looped multiple times about her neck, some reaching to her waist and others beyond. I guess she has almost a $1,000 of pearls in that one magnificent rope. Her gray hair is simply and modestly coiffed in a chignon but a touch of vanity comes through in the crimped waves about her face.

"Mr. Cartwright, I was told you desire to see my daughter-in-law—that you are an old friend." She sat down and motioned for me to do likewise. I couldn't make myself comfortable; the chair was hard although obviously expensive. Like a woman of good breeding, Mrs. James Otis did not relax either but say with a stiff spine.

"Yes. I am a friend of Zane's—of Mrs. Otis—actually her family's as well. I spent much time with them when I lived nearer." Not a lie. Not the truth.

She smiles slightly. "That's not much to recommend you. My daughter-in-law is not known for accruing…respectable companions and I can't see you and..." She stops as if the name is bitter. "Henry Vandeweghe as friends." I say nothing so she continues. "And I know on what matter you visit and I will tell you what I have told the others-I will not be blackmailed. I will not pay you to keep your sensational story out of the papers. Tell them. See what they will pay you. Take it since I will pay you nothing. I know that my daughter-in-law is a whore of the highest order but if she had slept with all the men who have come trying to inveigle money, she must needs be flat on her back 24 hours a day."

I don't know whether to be offended or not. "I have come to see Zane, not to extort money from you. As I said, I am an old friend of hers and her family's. I haven't seen any of them in years—almost 20 years."

"You do know her mother is dead and that her father is ill, has lost much of hs fortune due to bad investments so if you hoped to be paid by them, you may as well forget it and leave now back to…wherever."

I'm taken aback by the news. "No, I didn't know about her family. But now I am glad I've made the trip from Nevada," I say. I want her to know that I don't live in Boston—or near it. I haven't tupped the Otis "ewe"—at least not in a long while.

"What is the reason for your visit then?" She raises her chin to better look down it at me.

"It's a private matter." I hope to make it sound as if I haven't said, "None of your business," which is what I have said. I drop my voice apologetically. And my eyes. False humility is easy.

She sniffs. "Zane has no 'private' matters anymore. She has blown apart any privacy she was afforded by her act of murder—dragged my son through the muck with the lowest behavior possible. Caused no end of heartache to me and my husband. The newspapers have blown up the whole affair, written about the matter in the most common way and now there is to be an inquest. I am appalled by the whole vulgar affair."

"I am as well. We all know Zane is innocent."

"Innocent. Bah." Her hand moves dismissively. I wonder if she'll let me see Zane.

"Then you believe Zane shot the man—what was his name? Wade Curtis?"

"It is not up to me to say if Zane is guilty. Now please state your business if you have any hope of seeing her."

I pause, weigh the situation. "As I stated, I am an old friend and hoped to offer support and perhaps raise her spirits. I know that your husband and son are lawyers and are endeavoring to prove her innocence but sometimes—well, I am familiar with many aspects of the law having taken courses when in college."

"And where did you matriculate yhat you feel qualified to have any opinion?" She raises one supercilious brow.

"Harvard."

She takes a deep sigh and nods slightly—Ah! She Approves. "My husband and son are both Harvard men. You do not have the…pronunciation."

"I was raised out west and I can't remove the effects of fresh air and open spaces from my voice although-" I affect a Boston accent, "I can sound as if I belong." She lifts her nose in displeasure; I am making fun of Bostonians. I take a chance that she is like most wealthy people—better to have someone else pay for things. "I had hoped to offer some financial support, to contribute funds to Zane's defense." I wait to see if she has taken the bait.

She has. Mrs. Otis sits up straighter, touches the lace handkerchief she's holding to her cheek. "Zane may need some of your funds since…" She judges me, weighs me, and decides to go ahead. "She may soon be a divorcee. But I've said too much." I know she's said exactly what she wants to—no more, no less. She stands and I do as well. "I will have Zane sent down to you—for a short visit."

"Thank you." Heart thudding, pounding in my chest-I hope I don't look too eager.

"Now if you'll excuse me…" She walks out and I sit back down, waiting. I had thought of Zane for so long, for so many years that I prepare myself to be disappointed should Zane be nothing like the happy, laughing, young woman whose breasts I had held in my hands, kissing their rosy tips. Is Zane still the willing woman who lay on her back and reached up to welcome me into her embrace? But then, as I had stared at myself as I shaved that day, I wonder if Zane will be disappointed in me. I wonder pull in my stomach and straighten my tie. I am an older man—a weary older man who has come hoping to revive long dead feelings—to resurrect myself and perhaps Zane as well.


	10. Chapter 10

"Adam?"

I t is Zane. She wears a dull, gray fabric with light touches of lace around the high neck but she lit up the whole room despite the subdued colors. She smiles—her lips still lush and inviting and my pulse races at the sight of her. I force myself to assess her—how much she has changed; I knew I had, but her waist is still narrow, her hips round, their contours emphasized by the swathes of fabric that were au courant—I had seen upon arriving back east that many of the women wore that fashion; large billows of fabric collected where their buttocks were but Zane had none of that. She puts out her hands and seems to glide across the carpet to me, smiling, laughing—close to crying, she is so joyous.

I take her hands in mine, clasp them firmly and look into those hazel eyes—she is beautiful, still beautiful if not more now that the girlish roundness has left her cheeks-and I feel relief. Despite what has happened, it seems Zane is barely touched by the years. Her black hair is as glossy as always—like a crow's back-but worn sedately; no loose curls fall about her temples or at the nape of her neck; her snood of silver thread confines them. If anything, Zane is thinner than the last time I had seen her. But her face is lovely—like a painting that had endured years of being stored under an old sheet in an attic and when you cast aside the dusty fabric, you gasp at the colors and beauty of the painting. And here she is locked away in the Otis Mansion—not to be seen until she is exposed to the blood-thirsty public of Boston. I suppose in such a proper and staid society, any scandal is a diversion and entertainment, especially if a wealthy family was involved.

I take her hands in mine and raise them to my lips, kissing the smooth skin. I look back to at her face—damn it all to hell, she's beautiful, so delicious looking. "Oh, Zane, how lovely you look—beautiful as always."

"Oh, Adam. I can't believe it's really you—Thomas said a man was here to see me—a Mr. Cartwright. I hoped but was ready to be disappointed… Oh, Adam, how wonderful to see you. Come…sit down." We sit together on the sofa, turn toward each, still holding hands. "Why are you here after all these years-so many years?"

"I read about your…tribulations, and I had to come—to help if I could." Zane looks around as if she suspects someone else in the room. The turns her face to me but something has changed. She smiles but it's now forced. It's not that I feel she isn't glad to see me but that she's cautious—remembers she has to be. Unlike her to be so wary but now she's in enemy territory.

"The knight in shining armor returns to help the fair damsel in distress—or at least if this was a fairy tale it would go that way. But how are you, Adam? Am I all that brings you to Boston?" Her eyes are hopeful—I'll always remember that—the look of hope-or was it hopelessness; I can't be sure.

I glance behind her—thinking I saw the heavy portieres move. "I have other business…" A lie but I sound convincing. I've turned into a good liar when necessary. But I don't fool Zane.

Zane follows my gaze to the portieres. Zane puts a finger to her lips and says with hollow cheer, "Let's take a walk out in the garden. It's such a beautiful afternoon and I've been inside for so long-days." We stand and she takes my arm as if I'm to guide her but she's really leading me out of the room and then through a door, down a narrow hall that empties either into the kitchen or out to the back drive; it's the service entrance.

"I'm sorry to take you such a way, Adam, but my mother-in-law likes to sit in the conservatory this time of day, drinking her tea and thinking of ways to make me more miserable—I don't want her to see us. I keep hoping one day she'll be lost among all the potted palms in the room and never find her way out."

We appear to be two friends leisurely strolling but it's pretense—Zane is wound tightly—I can feel it. Her body is humming. Zane asks-are you married? I tell her I am. Happily? She asks. I say yes, and "I have a son, Abner." She is pleased.

"Is he as handsome as his father?" she asks me. I almost make a joke—"When I meet his father, I'll know." Zane would have laughed but I can't treat Mary Edith lightly. We sit on a small, white, wrought iron bench under a tree. It's a warm afternoon—about 3:00 pm but I don't check my pocket watch. I glance at the conservatory and note that Mrs. James Otis, if she positions herself just so can still see us but neither she nor anyone else can hear our conversation—at least not without our noticing their skulking nearby. Her household spies are useless out here.

We sit and don't look at one another—we're strangers now and strangers don't stare at each other. I had hoped that Zane and I would find ourselves confidantes again, warm and loving but it's not like that. Her hands are restless and move aimlessly. One hand goes to her face—elegant and of unsure destination like the butterflies that are flitting among the flowers. She is the first to open the conversation.

"I hope this trip means you've forgiven me," she says quietly.

"For what?"

Zane turns to me and color has come into her cheeks—she is pink and white like the young girl I knew so long ago. Her mouth is tremulous. I take her hands again and this time I bow my head over them. They're so small—so very small. She couldn't kill a man with these hands—they are to give a man pleasure, to tease him and run the fingers underneath his hardness to make him stand higher. Those gentle hands of hers are to caress his face and touch his mouth.

I can't yet look at her. "Did you kill Curtis? Did you shoot him?" Then I look up and she looks surprised as if shocked I would ask her that. Zane recovers and gently pulls her hands away and starts to play with a fold in her skirt.

"I thought you would ask different things—about my engagement and marriage—about why I broke off—actually, my parents broke off…I've been composing answers to those questions—not this."

"The other things are past," I say, "there's no point in discussing them. Now is now. I read about the allegation- the description of the crime and your arrest in the paper. Did you shoot Wade Curtis?"

Zane stands and paces a way. I sit and watch her. She stops in front of a large flowering quince and lightly touches the thorns. "All beauty has pain with it." She turns and looks at me—gives me an odd smile. "I had a gun—a derringer. Wade Curtis was shot through the head with a derringer. Reach your own conclusion. Everyone else has."

"There were two shots. Both from the same gun?"

Zane shrugs. It seems she doesn't care.

"I am assured I will not be convicted," she says but she doesn't sound as if she's convinced.

"Who assured you?"

Zane turns, faces me. I wait.

'Why my father-in-law and my father have assured me. I have the best lawyers, you know." Zane seems puzzled as to why I don't know that.

I stand and walk to her. "Is that what you think? That they're going to try to defend you?"

"Why wouldn't they/" Her voice is so small, it almost disappears. She catches her breath and clutches her throat. "No. They wouldn't do that. They wouldn't sacrifice me to save…" She can't speak-her eyes wide-incredulous.

"Zane, you're a liability.""

She laughs—it's a laugh of self-derision—not joy—not humor. She is aware of her foolishness. "I hadn't thought of that but…" Zane laughs more and then mirth turns to tears and she falls against me and I fold her in my arms. We sit back down. She weeps against my chest—can she hear my heart is breaking more with each tear? Did she weep when we were separated? I can't believe it was her idea to send me away.

I gently push her back to arms' length. "Listen to me. I need to know what happened—exactly what happened. I may be able to help."

"Do they hang women? My lawyer says not but…"

"It's happened before but not as a matter of course. But it won't happen to you—I won't let it. Now I need to know what happened."


	11. Chapter 11

I notice the courtroom is crowded; the Bostonians are curious about the "Vandeweghe Jezebel" as Zane is called in one newspaper column. All the reputed past exploits of Zane Vandeweghe Otis have been related to reporters by "close friends" and "acquaintances" and made the pages of the paper. I read them at breakfast—everyone in the hotel restaurant is talking about "the Murder" deciding she is guilty and wondering how money will be able exonerate her. Will the judge be bought or threatened? Will her lawyers be able to persuade the judge with convoluted arguments, with sophistry, that the charges against her are ridiculous? Will the prosecutor call any of her past lovers as witnesses against her, tell how she had affairs. No wonder her husband avoided intimate relations—at least it's rumored he wouldn't put his "diddler" into the swamp between her legs. I had no appetite.

When I walk up to the courtroom, a half-completed painting of a gloriously nude Zane as Leda with a roughly-sketched swan paddling between her spread thighs is on an easel outside the courtroom marked as sold but still displayed for all to see. The artist well-captured Zane's beautiful face and bare breasts—the expression of sexual ecstasy as the swan supposedly thrusts into her body, his head, languid on the end of his long neck. A passerby stops-places a hand on one of the painted breasts and making a crude grasping motion. He licks his lips lasciviously. Laughter ensues among the gawkers. Another man sells a sheet of newsprint for a penny. I buy one—curious if it's another article-and after glancing at it, ball it up and hurl it at him. Astonished, he jerks his head back. "Bastard," I snarl. He retreats while I pass. It was a crude cartoon showing Zane in a bed spreading her legs and extending her arms to welcome her husband while other men and a swan are poking their heads out from under the side of the bed. She is saying that she missed him, identifying him as Morty—and has been so lonely—the character says. People share the cartoon—passing it amongst themselves-and laughing.

Henry Vandeweghe isn't in the courtroom. The Otis family is also absent. "A husband would stand by his wife if she were innocent," I hear a woman say to another. Zane sits alone with her two lawyers—one on each side. Her face is serene like a Madonna. I go to her table up front and she is glad to see me. Zane reaches out a small gloved hand. "Oh, Adam, they aren't here. Is anyone here?"

I know who she means by "they" but I want her to know she isn't completely abandoned. "I'm here," I say hoping it is some comfort. Her lawyers look at me disapprovingly. I sit close behind them in case I have something to add to the proceedings.

We stand. The judge enters and we sit back down. Zane turns to look at me again and offers a wan smile. The clerk reads the facts of the case. The hotel's desk clerk of that night, Randall Sanford, is questioned by the prosecutor and eagerly answers. He again says exactly what he stated in the first newspaper article—I think he memorized it—probably read it every night—showed it to his wife who tut-tuts about the sins of the wealthy. And then she more than likely asks—is Zane Otis really as beautiful as they say. The man tries to think of a way out of saying that Zane Otis is every man's nocturnal fantasy come to life, that dreaming about her leaves a stain on the sheets, so he probably says—"Look at her picture and decide for yourself." Nevertheless, the man knows how beautiful Zane is—can still see her perfect face and sinuous body and imagines it's she beneath him as he grunts on top of his wife in their bed.

The only other thing the clerk adds is that people in nearby rooms came out, crowding the hall and stairwell. They wanted to look in the room and one patron fainted when told that a man had been killed—shot.

The bellhop is questioned and corroborates what the clerk said—Mrs. Otis was arrogant and behaved as if she hadn't done anything wrong. Did she seem upset? the bellhop is asked. He sits for a moment and then says that her lips were quivering and her hand shook putting the gun in her bag—she was pale. "Is this the gun?" A mall derringer is held up. "I suppose," the bellhop says. "I don't really know." He looks at Zane as if he is sorry for all he has said. I see her nod slightly—she forgives him. The young man smiles as if he's in love with the beautiful woman.

So far, neither of Zane's lawyers have said anything—questioned no one. I stand and begging the judge's indulgence. I ask if I can question the witness—the bellhop. The young man looks at the judge. The judge considers and asks my name and what relation I am to Mrs. Otis. "Adam Cartwright. I am a past acquaintance of Mrs. Otis." I hear a woman giggle and say to someone near her, "She might shoot him as well." I don't turn to look.

Zane's lawyers do turn to look at me. I stand holding my hat. Zane turns to me as well. Her face is like the sun shining on those below. Zane is above it all.

"All right, Mr. Cartwright. Since this is an inquest, family and close friends may ask questions. It is, after all, an inquest—not a trial." He examines the faces in the room. "Go ahead, Mr. Cartwright—ask-but I will end it at any time I see fit."

I thank him, place my hat on my seat and walk to the front of the room where the bellhop sits in a straight-backed chair beside the judge's desk.

"Did you and the desk clerk stay long in Mr. Curtis' room?"

"No, sir. We saw the body and then followed Mrs. Otis downstairs. I went for the police."

"Then you didn't examine the room, look in the closet, under the bed or into the bathing room to see if anyone was hiding."

"No, sir."

"Could someone have been hiding undetected in the room?"

"I guess so."

"Is there a back entrance to the Hotel Fairmont?"

"There's one from the alley."

"Is it kept locked?"

"After ten at night. It's left open during the day for laundry and groceries—you know, supplies to be delivered. Employees use that door too to come to work. We aren't to enter from the front entrance."

The prosecutor stands and says that I am asking ridiculous questions. Zane's lawyers say nothing. The judge says that he will allow it. I continue.

"Can someone get to the upper floors—the rooms—by that entrance?"

"Well, yes. It also leads to a stairwell. It's what's used for room service deliveries. Matter of fact, when I brought you clean towels the other night, I used that stairwell."

There's a buzz behind me—people are talking. The judge pounds his gavel and asks for quiet. I look at Zane's table. One lawyer covers his mouth with his hand and the other is looking through papers. Zane is watching me, looking at me as if I'm her savior. I may be.

"Are you staying at the Fairmont Hotel?" the judge asks me.

"Yes, your honor."

"Have you spoken to this young man about the case? Tipped him to answer questions in a certain way?"

"No. I gave him two bits when he brought me clean towels. Other than that, I've had no conversation with him." I wait.

"Continue," the judge says.


	12. Chapter 12

I continue and the bellhop seems eager to offer possible exculpatory evidence. "So do you think that someone could enter by that alleyway entrance—unnoticed-,go upstairs to a patron's room and slip out that way as well—also unnoticed?"

"Yes, someone could. The people in the kitchen wouldn't notice because the door doesn't open into the kitchen.—it's some ways from it, and that time of night, well, the restaurant's still hopping and the cooks and waiters are busy—too busy to notice anyone who might sneak in."

"Your honor," the prosecutor says, "the witness is giving extraneous information and what he said about someone coming and going without being noticed is just his opinion—that's all. And the term "sneak" is prejudicial and it assumes facts not in evidence."

"If it gets at the truth, what does it matter?" I ask. I notice that the young bellhop looks anxious—he wants to say something else. He looks at the judge, his brows raised expectantly.

"I agree with Mr. Cartwright. Our purpose is to find out all information—to discern the truth-and I will listen to everyone and anyone if that's what it takes. This is an inquest and I have a decision and do you think that I can be prejudiced by any evidence given here?" The prosecutor is embarrassed and sits down," He is discomfited—glowers at me. Zane's lawyers have yet to say anything—they stare at me as I make them appear inept but I think they are doing as instructed- to do nothing.

"Did you want to add anything else?" I ask the young man sitting in the chair. He is sweating and looks to Mr. Sanford, the night clerk.

I wait—will he say no or continue? He glances at Zane and then rushes his words before his courage fails. "A few years ago we had an actress staying at the hotel—she was from France—and her manager, well, he'd sneak men up to her room. I know they did 'cause I took her a tray of coffee and biscuits one night and she was sitting in bed and a man I'd never seen before was sitting beside her—both naked as jaybirds." The people titter. "I told the desk clerk that night—he's not there anymore-and he said that her manager was finding men to satisfy her, well, he referred to a body part—used a vulgar word, you know, the one with a C-and was sneaking them in the service entrance, from the alleyway."

There's a rise of whispers among the spectators and the judge pounds his gavel and demands silence.

"So if Mrs. Otis had intended to commit murder, had gone to the Hotel Fairmont with murder in mind, she could have snuck in unseen—correct?"

"Seems that way to me." He shrugs his shoulders.

"Thank you," I say to him and he smiles and then shyly steps down and goes to his seat. "And thank you, your honor, for indulging me," I say to the judge.

The judge makes a remark—says that it seems that I should be paid to be Mrs. Otis' defense since I seem to be the only one concerned. One of her lawyers darkens in displeasure. I sit back down.

One of the constables who had arrived at the murder scene states what he saw when they arrived at the hotel room, that Wade Curtis was dead. There were no other bullet wounds on the body that they could see. "From what the desk clerk and the bellboy both told us, we went out to the home of Mortimer Otis to arrest Mrs. Otis." The prosecutor asks who else was in the home. "Just household staff and Mr. Otis arrived as we were walking out with Mrs. Otis."

Did he say anything, the prosecutor asks? Yes—he asked us what was going on and we told him that we were arresting his wife for the murder of Mr. Wade Curtis in the Fairmont Hotel. He said it was absurd and told her that he would have her out shortly—would see to it himself."

"So, did he do so?" the prosecutor asks.

"He didn't come himself—another lawyer did—a real smooth-talker-and Mrs. Otis was released into her in-laws' custody."

"Isn't that unusual?" the prosecutor asks. "For someone to be released on a murder charge."

"Yes, but things are different with…" He catches himself in time as reporters are waiting to write down his words-he was going to say "the wealthy," I assume, but he thinks better of it. "Well, yes, it's unusual but not surprising, especially since she hadn't been formally charged—brought up in front of a judge. That's why we're here—her lawyer at the time disputed the evidence." The prosecutor thanks him but before the constable can step down, I rise and request permission to question him. It is given. I again leave my hat on my chair and move to the front. The constable looks at me askance—he sees me as the enemy, suspects I will attempt to trick him, trip him up on a technicality, make him look foolish.

"About how long after the murder did you and the other officer arrive?" I ask. He replies that it was probably twenty minutes or so. I nod. Could evidence have been destroyed, things taken from the room during that time? He reluctantly acknowledges that it is possible. Could another person who may have been in the room, someone who had killed Wade Curtis have slipped out since people had come from their neighboring rooms—the hotel was almost full that night according to earlier testimony-either through the front entrance or the back? Again, he gruffly replies that yes, it is possible.

People begin to talk again—a hum of voices. Opinions of Zane's guilt may be shifting. I then ask the constable if the gun he confiscated at the Otis household had been fired. He did check to see that, did he not? Of course, he replies—offended—affronted. Had it been? Well, it seemed to have been cleaned. I raise a brow. Oh? The constable says that he assumed it had been cleaned.

Or maybe there was another gun in the house. Did they check? He looks down. Yes, they checked but no other gun was found. Another buzz through the room. The judge watches me—grins at my cunning. For once the calculating side of my nature serves a good purpose. Had they asked Mrs. Otis to fire a gun? Is she a good shot—good enough to fire a gun and hit her target so precisely? He says no, but so quietly that the judge asks him to speak up. No. His voice is louder-they did not check. But he adds, that wasn't their job—they were just to arrest her and gather any possible evidence. Besides—people get lucky every so often—the shot that killed Mr. Curtis may have been pure luck.

I mention there were two shots fired. Had they found the other bullet? Had they even looked?

The constable shifts in the chair. He is uncomfortable. Yes—they looked. The bullet was lodged in the ceiling.

"In the ceiling," I reply. "So one shot is a wild shot…"

The prosecutor objects. "Facts not in evidence. Mr. Cartwright…" He says my name with distaste, "is speculating that it was a wild shot."

"All right," I say. "I'll leave the door open—perhaps it was a warning shot which means that Mrs. Otis, if it was she who fired the gun, pulled off a shot to keep someone—Mr. Curtis?, at bay. Perhaps she was threatened by Mr. Curtis. Or it was a wild shot. Either explanation seems plausible." I turn back to the witness.

"Despite the reason for the firing of the weapon—either the first or second time, one shot was harmless and the other shot was dead-on. Correct?"

"Yes."

"And you have no idea—because I can't see how you could, which shot was fired first and which second."

The constable says nothing, just turns his hat in his hands.

"Is there any other evidence you care to give?" I ask? No—nothing else, but he adds, they didn't need more. "Oh," I add evenly, "I think you do. The law requires you do." The room is silent.

I retake my seat and one of Zane's lawyers turns to look at me. I meet his eye and hope, when he turns away it is because he is intimidated. He and I know that if Zane goes to trial, he must now raise the same points and bring up the possibility—perhaps even the likelihood—that Zane arrived in the middle of an argument—a disagreement-between Wade Curtis and someone else—someone she was protecting by leaving with the weapon the other person used. The killer had stealthily entered through the alleyway and left by ether the same way or slipped out through the crowd.

And who might she be protecting? I know the answer to that question and so does Zane. And so does Morty Otis, his father and the lawyers who had planned—who had been told to serve Zane up as the sacrificial lamb to save the Otis name from an even worse scandal.


	13. Chapter 13

I wait in the anteroom to see Zane along with others—there are still reporters and voyeurs waiting in the courtroom to see Mrs. Mortimer Otis, that is what she does now that she's going to trial—if she cries or collapses, they want to be able to relate it firsthand—"She went pale and then just collapsed in the arms of her lawyers," or, "Mrs. Mortimer Otis cried out in shock and dismay when his Honor, Judge Redmond Franklin, announced that Mrs. Otis would be turned over for trial on the charge of murdering Mr. Wade Curtis in the Fairmont Hotel the night of March 16th, 1874." But she disappointed them all and there were no histrionics.

The judge stated there was enough evidence—albeit it all circumstantial—to demand a trial and that he hoped that "Mrs. Otis' lawyers don't remain mute and let the prosecutor run amuck during the trial as they did today during the inquest. I would think that you gentlemen," he motioned toward the two men with Zane, "would have been better prepared." The trial date was set for three weeks.

The prosecutor said, "The people request that Mrs. Otis be remanded and held in custody," but the judge said, "I don't believe that's necessary," and with a slam of the gavel, court was dismissed. And as I told you, Zane didn't faint nor did she cry out at the judge's ruling, but had turned to look at me—calm and serene—beatific.

When her lawyers walk her out, Zane spies me and moves toward me-smiling. She puts out her hands—I take them in mine. I want to kiss her—she's flushed, her lips swollen and rosy—Zane looks as I remember she always did after a tussle in the sheets, when we pleased each other in her bed—when she would stretch her languid body and sigh in contentment. I would run my hand over her smooth belly, caress her breasts and kiss her white neck. I fought against the urge to embrace her. Not all the newspapermen had yet left the courthouse to make their deadlines and at least three approached me and asked for an interview. I brushed them off as I would stinging flies but said nothing and did nothing but take Zane's hands and smile at her. I didn't want to give the newspapermen more fodder for their sensational stories—I held her hands and nothing more.

"Thank you, Adam—thank you. I may very well owe you my life."

"You owe me nothing." I want to say, "I did it for love of you," but this isn't the place and I think I shouldn't say it anyway—even though I feel it. "I won't be able to stay for the trial but I hope I've helped—given your lawyers a kick in the arse, so to speak."

"We should leave now, Mrs. Otis." One of her lawyers takes her upper arm and attempts to pull her away, but Zane pushes off his hand. He tries to grasp her again but this time, I grab his wrist; he knows from the pressure of my hand that I'll snap it if he persists.

"Wait without," she orders them. The lawyers look at one another and then step off a few feet. A reporter with a pad and pencil accosts them and the lawyers avoid answering any question.

A reporter comes to us—asks Zane if she expected a trial. I shove him away and put my arm about her; we move toward the exit and one of her lawyers watches us; he looks panicky; he seems afraid to lose his client to my influence. The reporter comes back—annoying like a noisy terrier. I wish he were a mere dog, I'd kick him away and hear him yip but he's not, so I raise my fist and slam it against his jaw. It's Zane who makes a sound of surprise as the man goes sprawling, his pad and pencil flying. I shouldn't have hit him—I know that-but I am who I am and I say to him as I bend to pick up my hat while he lies on the floor—"Stay away from Mts. Otis or next time I'll break your hand and shove your pencil up your ass. You won't be able to write any of your insulting stories unless you can scoot along the floor with paper underneath you."

Zane's lawyers come rushing amid the noise among the bystanders and hustle both of us out of the anteroom, through the lobby and into the street.

"You made things worse, Mr. Cartwright," the taller lawyer says. "You had best hope he doesn't press charges."

I begin to reply but Zane stands up for me. I am amused at her earnest face, her indignant tone-"He stood up for me and not just there but in the courtroom as well, something which neither of you seemed inclined to do. You're both fired."

"We've been put on this case by your father-in-law; only he can fire us…ma'am."

"Well, I just have," she says. They look at one another. "Adam," Zane says, turning to me, "Will you see me home? And I do mean home. I haven't been out anywhere in the past few weeks and I want to see my father before…they say he's dying."

"Of course." I don't think it's a good idea for her to go anywhere but back to the Otis manor but I understand. Zane slips her arm through mine, presses herself to me and I look about for a hack.

The lawyers look flustered, confused, and they hurry to catch us. They stumble over their words. They apologize for not asking more questions but it was just an inquest—just procedural; they were preparing for the trial—that's where they will present all the evidence and other possible explanations for who might be the shooter. Zane and I walk away but they follow us, entreating her to not go. They were to keep her in their custody-her family as well as her husband's will be displeased if she leaves with me. One of the lawyers grabs her again and I turn to face him. He drops her arm and they both step back. I suppose hitting the lawyer intimidated them. Zane and I walk a bit further and I hail a cab. I help Zane in and give the driver our destination. The two lawyers watch us ride away. I fear there will be repercussions for Zane and that isn't my intent. She's behaving with abandonment, as if she has nothing to lose but she does—so much to lose.

"Zane…are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes."

"Were you serious about firing the lawyers? It seems…inadvisable, as we say, to switch horses in mid-stream. The newspapers will crucify them and by association, the whole law firm. "

"I have you, Adam. You know the truth and you helped at the inquest. What more do I need?"

"A lawyer."

Zane looks at me—puzzled. She is such a combination of contrary elements—sensual and worldly, a woman every man dreams of possessing, and yet, innocent and ignorant of so many things—especially the machinations of the people around her. She can't see into men's souls and ferret out the evil and that makes her a victim to those who would serve her up to be swallowed whole.

I take her gloved hand and kiss it. "I'll find you a lawyer, Zane, and I'll pay his retainer and his fee."

"Adam, I can't let you pay his salary. You owe me nothing and you've already helped me so much that…"

"Zane, for what we once meant to each other—let me. Let me do it." I still hold her hand and she looks at me, tears brimming in her beautiful eyes.

"Adam, I have to explain…"

But I don't want to hear what she has to say—not now—not at this moment. After all, what does it matter anymore? It doesn't. We have our separate lives—I have a wife and child, Mary Edith and Abner-but I won't abandon Zane.

"I came back to Boston to help you and I'll do what I can—I have to do to live with myself and if I left you to the wolves, I'd never be able to live with myself. And you must promise me this…" She looks at me quizzically—"tell your new lawyer all that you told me. Tell him who was in the room and who fired the gun. Tell him and listen to his advice."

Zane sighed, wiping a tear away, her breast rising and falling. She looks at me and smiles-sadly. "Thank you, Adam. I'll do as you say. I've done what too many other people have told me to do. I used to think I was so independent. You remember the girl I was, don't you" I say, yes—quietly. "I loved that girl; she was so happy," Zane says with a little laugh; her voice breaks with tears. "It's a shame what's become of her—a shame."

I put my arm around her and Zane drops her head on my shoulder, her small hat being pushed aside a bit. "I loved that girl too," I say, "and I think she's turned into quite a woman."

"No, Adam. I'm a coward. I should have…." Zane sighs again. She sits up and pulls a handkerchief from her reticule, dabbing her eyes.

"As I told you once, Zane, so long ago—you're my brave girl and you always will be." I pull her back to me and she sits partially huddled in my arms. And we move closer to the Vandeweghe home.


	14. Chapter 14

It wasn't a good visit for Zane but valuable to me—it gave me a greater perspective on Zane's life. She had withheld things from me—intentional or not, I don't know.

Zane gave a small cry of despair, her hand flying to her throat when we entered the large house—the rooms looking cavernous now that they were practically empty. All the paintings had been sold and the antiques auctioned. The house contained just the barest of furniture and the housekeeper was the only employee. Zane and she embraced and then Zane headed up the stairs.

"Zane doesn't know how her father is. He's barely sensible. The scandal and his remorse, his guilt, has broken down his health even more." She looked anxiously up the stairs as if she could see through the closed door of the bedroom where Henry Vandeweghe lay dying.

"What do you mean?" I asked. She said that Henry asked constantly for his wife, asked when she was going to come home, return from another trip.

"I think you should go up with her," the housekeeper said, her hands nervously clasping and unclasping.

I did. I hurried upstairs and quietly walked up behind Zane as she bent over her father. Both Henry's mind and eyes were unfocused. I suppose that was why he though Zane was her mother.

"Agatha, you're finally home?" he said when he saw Zane, reaching out a shaking hand.

"Henry-Father—it's me, Zane." She sat in the chair I polled to the bed and she took his pale, spotted hand in hers. They looked skeletal.

"Zane? Zane is married—gone. My child…oh, my child, my child should hate me—I am Jeptha—worse than Jeptha. I sacrificed my child for money—for money."

"It's me, Zane. I'm here to see you, Henry—Father." She kissed his hand and held it in both of hers against her bosom.

"Agatha, why were you gone so long? Stay home for a while? Will you stay?"

Zane smiled kindly. "Yes. I'll stay awhile." She bowed her head over their hands.

Henry Vandeweghe closed his eyes and relaxed. "Good, good. Tell Martha to have dinner ready. We're having guests," he said, his voice dropping off to a mere whisper and he was asleep—roaming somewhere in his mind.

Zane looked n back at me. "Adam, I'll sit with him awhile." She saw that the housekeeper, the "Martha" Henry had mentioned, stood just inside the door. "Martha, will you give Mr. Cartwright coffee? And something to eat, perhaps" I was going to protest—there was no need. I would be glad to wait downstairs and then see Zane to the Otis home but Martha seemed glad to have something to do so se bustled me off.

~ 0 ~

I sit in the kitchen at a round table while Martha makes the coffee and despite my protests, insists I take a piece of cake. I accept and once I taste it, I'm glad I did.

"It's very good," I said. "My wife is a fine baker but this is one of the best cakes I've ever tasted."

"I put in sour cream. It's my secret but you can tell your wife if you like. It's also German chocolate—very rich and I melt it in a double boiler and then add the sour cream. Then I add the dry ingredients."

She pours me a cup of coffee and I ask her to join me.

"Thank you, sir. I'm glad to sit down and have some company. No one comes to see Mr. Vandeweghe anymore but I still have cake and cookies ready in case any guests show. And then Miss Zane hasn't been here…" She sighed. "I remember you, Mr. Cartwright, from the days you came to see Miss Zane. So you say you're married."

"Yes." I wipe my mouth with my napkin. "I'm married and have a son—he's two."

She sipped and then said, "That's lovely. I only wish Miss Zane were as happy, had a child of her own but there's been none, well, except that…" She stops talking but then continues. "I think it must be her husband. His…member probably doesn't work well; he's not much of a man, you know. That's why I couldn't understand why Mr. and Mrs. Vandeweghe wanted her to marry Morty Otis. But I heard things."

"Oh/" I listen attentively.

"I'm not one to gossip—have kept many secrets—especially the way they let Zane run wild when she came back from school—do whatever she liked and allowed—if you'll pardon me, Mr. Cartwright—you to stay overnight with her in the house. I never told anyone about what went on in the house but Miss Zane, she liked shocking people—thought it was funny. She even enjoyed shocking me, saying things and such but I never reacted except to tell her that I knew her since she was a babe and she wasn't fooling me with her act—she was really a sweet child. Well, Miss Zane would always become sober and apologize—usually hug me or kiss me on my cheek—she is a loving, young woman and should have married someone she loved and who loved her and I think you did. I think you loved her."

"I did—very much."

The housekeeper sighed and poured us both more coffee, pouring some sweet cream into hers. "Her parents insisted that she marry Morty Otis."

"Why/ Why would they do that and why would Zane agree?"

"Miss Zane and Mister Morty were engaged before you even showed your handsome face, Mr. Cartwright." I smiled at that; I had never really thought of myself as handsome even though Zane said so and looks are fleeting; I had seen too many lovely faces fade and hair lose its luster and turn gray and coarse—life beats us up. "But she wasn't eager for marriage with him—didn't want it and then you came around and Mister Morty was forgotten—at least by Miss Zane. Mr. Otis—the father—he came around many times and the two men would lock themselves in the study. And then one day it was decided that Miss Zane wouldn't see you anymore—it was time for her to marry. Miss Zane wept, begged, cried out and she said something that I've kept secret all this time." Margaret dropped her eyes—my pulse thudded in my ears. "She said that you wouldn't stand for it; you would shoot Morty Otis to keep her, to marry her and claim your child."

Time freezes but I hear the Regulator clock on the wall ticking, each swing of its pendulum moving the gears inside—seconds passing but time stood still. I can't take a breath. But I gather myself together enough to speak; my voice is rough as if I haven't used it in years and it needs oiling.

"A child? There's a child?" I grip the coffee mug in my hand. The sides are hot from the freshly-poured coffee. I need the burning sensation to hold myself together.

"There _was_ a child. It died seven days after it was born—he lived a week."

"It was a boy?"

"Yes. Miss Zane named him Jack. She was heartbroken when he died—actually more than that but I don't know another word that could covey how she was." The housekeeper, Martha, pauses and then decides to continue. "They talked about putting her away afterwards."

"Putting her away? In a hospital, an asylum? Why?" The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—something horrible is coming.

"I can only say what I heard—what Mr. and said…" She looks at me and bites he lower lip but says, "Miss Zane claimed they smothered her baby—first she accused her mother-in-law, then the nurse who took care of the child. She howled like an animal they said—was heartbroken and claimed her child was killed because it was another man's—because it wouldn't pass as Morty's son, as an Otis. You see," she rushed now with the words—hurrying to explain to me, "it wasn't the Vandeweghes who wanted Miss Zane to marry Morty Otis—it was the father, Mr. James Otis. Because Zane was reputed to be…free-thinking, to be generous with her favors, well, they were happy that she had a full belly, that she was with child because it suggested to everyone that she had carried on with Morty even while seeing others, that he had 'known' her and was doing the right thing by her by finally marrying her."

I can't speak, can only think of Zane and how it must have been for her—all alone. I curse myself—I shouldn't have left her alone all those years ago. No matter what, I should have stayed, should have been here for her. But there is no going back now.

"After that," Martha says, "Mrs. Vandeweghe took her to Switzerland—for a rest cure, she said—Zane was 'overwrought,' they called it. They were gone about a year and when they returned, Miss Zane didn't care about anything anymore—just became wilder—more brazen—and hard. I think she carried on with other men—at least one time she came over and she and her mother argued horribly—terribly; they were screaming at each other, Zane stating that her husband was useless and she didn't love him—and he didn't love her. Was it so wrong, she asked her mother, to want to be loved, to want to know a man's arms about her? And then she laughed—it was frightening to hear her laugh like that."

My voice won't serve me. I stare at my coffee.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cartwright—I shouldn't have told you since it was so long ago…"

"No," I finally utter. "I'm glad you did. It helps me…understand."

She rises and then asks me if I'd like another piece of cake. I decline and to bring myself back, I drink my coffee and it burns my palate but I don't care—I need the pain; I feel I deserve more than just that small hurt.


	15. Chapter 15

"Can we walk for a while," Zane asks, her arm through mine, her other hand resting on my arm—she is holding me close. "It's such a beautiful time of day and it won't be dark for at least another hour or so." She hadn't put her gloves back on after seeing her father and I reach down and take her small hand resting on my arm, lift it and kiss her fingertips. She smiles at me and gives my arm a slight hug. We walk and a cool breeze picks up—it seems encouraging.

As we walk, it's as if all the years have fallen away and Zane and I are young and in love strolling along—all our life stretches out ahead of us—but the moment is fleeting as Zane asks me when I have to leave. I have a wife and child who I love and I can't stay with Zane no matter how much she may need me but I don't say that.

"I'm not sure," I answer. "I suppose after I find you a lawyer and am secure in knowing you'll be well-represented."

"Yes. Thank you for that. You've given me a different point of view as to…" She pauses. "I needed someone and you appeared. I'm sure it wasn't easy for you to leave your family."

We walk along in silence; I don't comment. I want to ask Zane about the child that only lived a week. I want to ask her why she hadn't told me about the child as soon as she suspected. But then, perhaps she didn't want me to know, didn't want to marry an architectural intern who could barely afford enough food to allow him a good shit once a week. I hoped she would tell me before I left Boston but I make up my mind to not delve into it; it would bring her more pain and I knew Zane had suffered far more than she deserved.

"My father is dying and he never recognized me, Adam, never knew I was sitting there beside him. He kept talking to me as if I was Agatha. You know, I was never sure if they loved one another, my parents but now I do. I wish….well, what I wish doesn't matter. No Genji is going to grant me a wish to change my past. I am sad that my father might die thinking I never visited him, though."

"Zane, you know you visited him—that's what matters now." She sighs and we walk on.

"Tell me about your life, Adam. What's it like out west? I've been to France and Italy and other places in the world but I've never been out west. Is it another world, another civilization?"

"No. Not now at least. So many cities are growing and San Francisco, well, it bustles as much as New York."

"But what is your day like? What do you do out on the Ponderosa?"

Zane intently watches me; she is interested. "I deal with stubborn cattle and ranch hands—and my stubborn brothers—I need to ride herd on all of them, it seems. And at the end the day, I make sure I scrape any manure off my boots before I go in the house for dinner. Or I visit the mines and check what's going on there, or the mill to see if orders are being filled. No matter what my day is like, in the evening I keep the accounts, handle the wages and then fall asleep—usually from exhaustion and they next day, I start all over again."

"Tell me about your family. Your son."

"I told you already. There's not much more to tell about a two-year old."

"Do you miss him?"

I chuckle. "Yes, I miss him. Pa always says that looking at him is like looking at me at his age. I like to think he takes after his old man—he's a handsome boy." I smile and then I remember the child Zane lost, our child and feel I shouldn't have said what I did—it may have hurt her. But she says nothing more for a few more yards.

"Do you miss your wife?" She stops and faces me. "You never told me about her—avoided it. Do you miss her? Do you love her?"

I take a breath. "Yes, I love her and I miss her. Why do you want to know, Zane?"

She turns her head slightly, moves towards me and then we kiss. I pull her to me, wrap her in my arms and kiss her eager mouth, her cheeks. I murmur her name and she yields. I could take her, I think. We could go back to the Vandeweghe home and rut on the bare wood floor-once again I would see those round, white thighs above the rolled stockings. I could hold her breasts if I unbuttoned the bodice of her dress, kiss her anywhere I chose. But I couldn't go further. I would have to tell Mary Edith if I satisfied myself by taking Zane. I wanted Zane—I ached for Zane but I couldn't. I tenderly held her and gently pushed her back.

"Oh, Zane. You do this to me…make me think of nothing but you. I've thought of you—wondered about you, wondered if you still loved me all these years. But it doesn't matter now, does it? We've both made our paths in life and I have a wife and son and….I'll need to return to them soon."

Zane steps back and smooths her skirts, adjusts her hat while I try to regain my composure. I look around and the people passing by us stare. I fear they might recognize Zane and rush to report it to a newspaper—some tabloids pay for leads. So I put my arm about Zane's waist and rush her down the street and hail a cab. I help her in and tell the cab to take her to the Otis home.

"Adam? Aren't you coming?" She looks at me—almost desperate.

"No. I have to interview lawyers. I'll be by to see you before I go back—I swear it." I can still see her face in my mind. She looked as if she had been abandoned. and I suppose she had—I'm too afraid of the weaknesses of my flesh and I knew that when I returned home, it would show in my face if I had taken Zane. Mary Edith would know and I would confess. And then she would ask me—"Do you love her?" And how would I answer that? How?


	16. Chapter 16

I was lying on my bed in the hotel, exhausted and had only removed my jacket and tie and pushed my boots off with the opposite foot before flopping down. It had taken almost two days but I had finally secured a lawyer I felt was competent to take Zane's case. Not only competent—as a few others had been that—but when I interviewed him, he didn't seem able to be influenced or intimidated by the Otis family and their wealth and power.

His name was Jedidiah Fenster, a man of about 60 years who wore glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was thin and had a sense of energy rushing through him. He said he had been following the case in the papers and recognized my name as the man who had asked the questions at the inquest.

"You would have made a fine lawyer," he said to me as he poured me a shot of whiskey from a bottle he kept on a small table along with glasses and a bowl of sugar loaves. "I like sugar in my whiskey," he said as he poured the golden liquid over the loaf.

I gave him a draft for a $500.00 as the retainer and told him to bill me for the final fee leaving my address in Nevada—I would pay, I assured him, no matter how much. "And," I made sure to add, "Zane Otis is innocent. I've told her she has to tell you everything—everything she told me, perhaps even more, and she's promised she will."

Mr. Fenster, Esq. and I finished our business and shook to seal the deal. I left his office relieved; Zane would be well-represented and I was certain—if the jury was actually open-minded—that she would be found innocent—not just "not guilty" but "innocent," exonerated and free of suspicion.

I throw an arm over me eyes. I'm hungry—hollow- but at the moment, I'm too tired to go to the restaurant on the ground floor. I consider requesting room service and I make plans to see Zane tomorrow and give her Mr. Fenster's card and tell her he will be calling on her. But what if I'm denied her? What if her mother-in-law won't give me an audience? I'll deal with that if it arises, I tell myself.

There's a knock on the door and I begrudgingly get up. Then I stop—I'm surprised at how long it takes for my suspicious nature to take hold; I realize that I am really tired. I go to my valise where I have my gun. I pull it out, flip open the barrel and see it's still fully-loaded. Holding it against my thigh and in my stocking feet, I open the door with my left hand. It's a woman priggishly dressed; no skin shows except for her face and upper neck. Even her ears are hidden by the hair sweeping over and across them and an unremarkable hat sits flat on her head.

"Yes?"

"You're Mr. Cartwright, correct? I saw you in the courtroom yesterday at the inquest for Wade Curtis' murder. She did it you know."

"Who are you and what do you want? Forgive my curtness but I'm tired and I don't have time for anyone's accusations condemning Mrs. Otis. So unless you were there in the room with her and Wade Curtis the night he died, you know nothing and I would prefer you keep your nasty allegations to yourself. Or maybe you can sell your story to one of the newspapers because if that's why you've come to me, I'm not buying. Now goodnight." I start to close the door when she asks me to wait a moment and can she come in.

I capitulate and just step back and motion her in with my gum. She notices the weapon but passes by me and into the room and stands-waiting. I close the door and place my revolver on the top of the highboy; she's not tall enough to reach it—I don't want to end up like Wade Curtis. I wait.

"I'm Mrs. Ellen Stafford; Wade Curtis is…was my brother." She waits for me to sat something.

"I'm sorry for your loss. Now if that's all…"

"Wait," she says and approaches me-places her hand on my arm. I stare at it and then look her in the face and she drops her hand. "You seem to know quite a bit about what happened the night my brother was killed." I say nothing and she continues. "I know that my brother wasn't the most respectable man—could be quite the cad—a blackguard. He was blackmailing Mrs. Otis because he was her lover. He was going to tell the papers and describe the intimate details to the highest bidder if Mrs. Otis didn't pay him a thousand dollars immediately and then a hundred each month for the rest of his life. That's why she shot him."

I still say nothing. But Mrs. Stafford has a small smile, she believes she knows something I don't—my pulse steps up. My fear for Zane doubles now. What if Mrs. Stafford takes her story to the papers? Zane could never have an unbiased trial then. What if she demands money from me? I decide I'll pay—at least for the time being. After the trial, well, let her go to the papers—it won't matter; she'll have no credibility but be seen as a woman who is attempting to slander an innocent woman over the unfortunate death of her brother.

"Don't you see" Mrs. Otis is frustrated; her plan isn't going as she intended."

"What do you want, Mrs. Stafford?"

"Justice for my brother."

"That's why there's going to be a trial—to have justice for your brother and Mrs. Otis."

"So she's enchanted you as well? You seemed such a logical man at the inquest but now I see that you're like all other men—like my brother who was seduced by her beauty-and her money. What do you hope for, Mr. Cartwright? To bed her? To wed her or just get a great deal of money from her?"

I chuckle at life's absurdities and shake my head. Finally I say, "If there's nothing else, please leave."

She huffs and I open the door for her. She passes by me but once in the hall, turns. "Mrs. Otis is a murderess—a whore and a murderess. I can't believe you defend her knowing about her abhorrent crime and her disgusting past; she's a mad woman, you know-insane. She murdered my brother and if you can help it, she'll get away with it."

I think Mrs. Stafford may spit at me—she looks as if she will—but instead, she raises her head and stalks off. I close the door. She knows part of the whole story, but then, perhaps Zane lied to me and only told me the part she knew I would want to hear. Perhaps I'm a fool—still in love with her and ready to believe she lives on air as some ethereal being would; she could never be guilty of such a heinous act as murder—or could she. And for once, I doubt her veracity.

~ 0 ~

I eat my dinner, baked chicken with a wine sauce, fresh peas and roasted potatoes but I taste nothing. I can't stop wondering if Zane lied to me. She would know I'd believe her—knows I loved her beyond reason so many years ago. I think I'm not the man I was—the boy, really. I've gone through much and my view of mankind is even more jaded than it was when young. Why do I trust Zane, I ask myself? She's as capable of deceit as anyone else, especially when her life is at stake. Hadn't she kept the child from me? What else had she lied about? About loving me? Had I been just a hard cock to please her?

I place the napkin on my table and rise to leave. The waiter rushes over and asks me if anything is wrong—is the food not to my taste? Would I care for something else, perhaps? I tell him the food was fine but that I just remembered I have an appointment. I toss a dollar on the table as a tip; the meal will be added to my hotel bill.

My hat is upstairs and I consider whether or not to fetch it but I'm too impatient—I have a fire inside me-raging. I go out and walk a few yards before I hail a cab and go to the Otis manor; I wish I had my hat.

We pull up and it is dark but the windows glow with light. I consider how much oil they must use to keep the huge house illuminated. But maybe, like the hotel, they've been piped for gas. I was last there during the day and I try to remember but can't. I pull the bell and after a few seconds the same butler answers the door, Thomas.

"Hello, Thomas. I'm here to see Miss Zane. Is she available?" Having gained entrance once makes it easier the second time. He lets me in and asks me to wait giving a small bow. I look around but see no one. Thomas returns and asks me to accompany him. I end up in a study where Mr. James Otis is waiting—at least I assume it is he. It's been years since I last saw him. He's close to 70 now and has a large paunch; his silk smoking jacket barely fits around him.

 **I know this is an awkward place to end this section but I haven't quite decided how the meeting is to go. I should have it decided by tomorrow. I apologize about the delays between sections-busier than I had anticipated but I swear to anyone who is to kind enough to be reading, I am writing as quickly as I can**.


	17. Chapter 17

**I've added the last section from yesterday to keep continuity-I think it helps so you're not really experiencing deja vu.**

I eat my dinner, baked chicken with a wine sauce, fresh peas and roasted potatoes but I taste nothing. I can't stop wondering if Zane lied to me. She would know I'd believe her—knows I loved her beyond reason so many years ago. I think I'm not the man I was—the boy, really. I've gone through much and my view of mankind is even more jaded than it was when young so why do I trust Zane, I ask myself? Why do I think she's an exception? Zane's as capable of deceit as anyone else, especially when her life is at stake. Hadn't she kept the child from me? Anger rises in me at the thought of me child that died. I remind myself not to be mired in selfishness—he was Zane's child too but that doesn't alter the fact that she hid the news from me. What else had she lied about? About loving me? Had I been just another hard cock to please her? I doubt everything I once believed true about her. I know I'm not the only man who's been a woman's dupe.

I place the napkin on my table and rise to leave. My appetite is gone. The waiter rushes over and asks me if anything is wrong—is the food not to my taste? Would I care for something else, perhaps? Another glass of wine? A cup of coffee? I tell him the food was fine but that I just remembered something I need to do. I toss a dollar on the table as a tip; the meal will be added to my hotel bill.

My hat is upstairs and I consider whether or not to fetch it but I'm too impatient—I have a raging fire inside me; Zane's made a fool of me—I'm sure of it. I go out and walk a few yards in the cool night air before I hail a cab and go to the Otis manor. Suddenly, I wish I had my hat.

We pull up and it is dark but almost all the windows glow with warm light. I consider how much oil they must use to keep the huge house illuminated—the mere cost must be overwhelming. But maybe, like the hotel and many other places in Boston, they've been piped for gas. I was last there during the day and I try to remember but can't. I pull the bell cord and after a few seconds the same butler answers the door, Thomas.

"Hello, Thomas. I'm here to see Miss Zane. Is she available?" Having gained entrance once makes it easier the second time. He acknowledges me, calls me Mr. Cartwright and lets me in and asks me to wait giving a small bow. I look around but see no one. Thomas returns and asks me to accompany him. I end up in a study where Mr. James Otis is waiting—at least I assume it is he. It's been years since I last saw him. He's in his 70's now and has a large paunch; his silk smoking jacket barely fits around him.

"Mr. Cartwright, sit-please." James Otis motions to a chair; I notice he has a limp. He's aware I see his weakness of body. I wonder if he has a weakness of mind as well and he senses it. "I suffer from gout upon occasion. It only affects my foot, not my sharpness of mind. Henry the VIII had gout and yet he managed to hang and behead many of his enemies—as well as his wives." He again asks me to sit—it sounds more like an order so I don't comply.

"I would rather just see Zane-Mrs. Otis. I've secured a lawyer for her who will visit tomorrow. I want to inform her and give her his card." I hear a noise behind me and hoping it's Zane, turn. A man about my age enters the room.

Mr. Otis raises his arm, acknowledging the man. "Morty, Mr. Cartwright has honored us with his presence. Morty is Zane's most devoted and loving—and patient husband." I just glance at Morty—a dissipated, truly effete man. "Please, Mr. Cartwright, sit down. Morty, pour us some brandy, would you?" In a modified tone, James Otis adds, "Please, Mr. Cartwright, won't you sit?"

I nod and then sit in a large leather chair, obviously, from the quality of the leather, expensive. Mr. Otis sits and puts his gout-ridden foot on a matching leather hassock.. He opens a humidor that is there on a side table and offers me a cigar. I accept; he takes one for himself. He clips the tip of his and offers the tool to me. I do the same and we both light up. Morty offers me a snifter and I take it from his thin, elegant hand. He has, I think, the hands of an artist. He also gives a snifter to his father and then sits on a small chair against the wall in the semi-darkness out of the lamp glow. With his pale, bloodless skin, he seems a creature of the dark, someone who hides from the light and only comes to life after darkness like some vampyre.

I take a puff and then look at the cigar. It is expensive—I can tell by the flavor of the tobacco—rich and full.

"That's a fine cigar," I say. He thanks me. "And very good brandy," I add, having taken a sip. "And although I appreciate both and your hospitality, I would like to see Zane. I need to finish my business here in Boston so I can return home." I pull on the cigar and the warmth goes into my lungs and works its calming magic.

"To your wife and child," James Otis says raising his glass in a toast. He smokes his cigar and I notice her has a huge ruby ring on the smallest finger of his right hand. He smiles slightly. I must have given myself away—my surprise and fleeting fear that he mentions Mary Edith and Abner. "You see, Mr. Cartwright, I know everything about you."

He is baiting me—I am determined not to snap at it and be caught.

He chuckles and continues. "The first time you came to my attention-all those years ago when you interrupted my plans for Morty…" He looked to Morty and I do as well but Morty sits still and says nothing; I wonder why he's even here. "I hired Pinkerton men to investigate you. I know where you went to school, what your scores were, where you interned—I even had access to your jobs and your evaluations by Townsend & Steele. I know where you lived, how much your father sent you every month and when and where you saw Zane. My man paid her lady's maid for information—and she's also the one who told us about the corseting and the letting-out of her dresses. So you see, Mr. Cartwright, we knew about Zane's growing belly before you even did—probably even before she realized it herself.

"I know about how you tried to see Zane and finally left New York and returned to the…Ponderosa, I believe. Named after the Ponderosa pines on the large ranch. I was satisfied you were gone forever but no, you showed up again." He puffs on his cigar. "So, I had to hire detectives again and have you followed. I also had you investigated again—you've accomplished much in the intervening time.

"You served in the Union army during the Civil War, escaped from Andersonville shortly before the war ended but found your way back to your regiment. I know you were a brevet captain and I also know you declined any honors given to you for valor and bravery. I know about all your injuries you accrued, about your reputation in Virginia City, Sacramento and San Francisco.

"You remained single until about three years ago. Your wife's name is Mary Edith—your son's, Abner-for your wife's father. You are a wealthy man in your own right but included with all your family's holdings, well, then you're almost as wealthy as I. Now, Mr. Cartwright…"

James Otis sits up, his body is tense—I can tell by the way he's griping his cigar, by the way he's leaning toward me that he is about to propose a deal; I've n been in enough negotiations not to be able to recognize the tactic. I am determined to give nothing away.

"As I said, I am wealthy-tell me your price and I'll pay it."

"I have no interest in your money. Didn't one of your 'men' tell you that about me?"

"I don't want Jedidiah Fenster to defend Zane. Yes, I know you hired him, Mr. Cartwright…you can't fart without one of my men smelling it and reporting to me. One of my own lawyers will defend her."

Rage rises inside me. I want to pull him out of his chair and knock him senseless—see him splayed on the floor. "You mean your lawyers will see she's convicted. I know what happened—Zane told me."

"That may be but Mrs. Stafford—I believe you met her already- will be an excellent witness although you may not think so. Yes, I know she went to see you and after being interviewed by one of my staff, well, she has a letter from her brother talking about blackmailing the Otis'. She will appear at the trial and she will damn Zane. Do you understand?"

I put down my brandy and standing, toss my cigar into the flames of the fireplace.

"I would like to see Zane."

He stands as well. "I'm afraid that's impossible. She is under our custody and I'm afraid that neither you nor Mr. Fenster will be able to see her. Besides, she's….unstable. Your taking her to see her father and his miserable state has broken her. Now, I would suggest you leave and I mean Boston. You had best return to Nevada—perhaps one of your family members—your wife or child, your father or one of your brothers—perhaps both, might meet with an unfortunate accident. Your presence at the Ponderosa may prevent it. The sooner you leave, the safer they are."

I don't like being threatened—it makes me obstinate but he has threatened those I love and I realize he has my balls in his fist—and he's twisting.

He nods toward Morty who slips out the door and two large men step in; one looks like a farrier—broad shouldered; obviously someone on staff, and the other is just big. They wait, their feet braced. I decide I might be able to take one—maybe—but two, no. So I leave, shouldering the biggest one aside. I expect him to grab me but he doesn't and I continue to the door, Thomas waiting to let me out. I feel impotent to do anything and that feeling doesn't sit well with me. My mind races going over all James Otis said. My gut tells me to leave, to take the nest train out-but then I remember Zane and her look when I refused to accompany her, when she thought I had left her to be swallowed whole by her enemies. I have to think—to go back to my room and think. So I hail a cab to take me back to the Fairmont Hotel.


	18. Chapter 18

It's late—almost half past 2:00 according to the clock in my room—I trust the chambermaid wound it and it's accurate. I can't sleep—my mind won't rest as I keep going over the conversation with Otis. There's a knock on my door. I pull on my trousers—another knock—louder this time-and retrieve my gun; it could be Otis' men come to pound in my face, shatter my ribs, to teach me a lesson—or worse. But it isn't them I see when I open the door I see it's a woman wearing a black veil and for a mere heartbeat I/m puzzled and then I know-it's Zane.

I pull her in the room, look about the empty hall, and close the door behind her, turning the key in the lock. "Zane. What are you doing here this time of night…how did you manage to leave? Don't you know how much trouble this can cause?"

She folds back the veil and I see that face that haunts me day and night—the face I love so much. I try to remember Mary Edith but only a faceless ghost rises before me.

"I'm sorry, Adam, but I had to take the risk I know you came to see me tonight and were sent away—Morty told me-so when the house was asleep, I left—snuck out like a disobedient child. That's what I've come to—cowed by the Otis family and their power. Why were you there, Adam? Why did you need to see me?"

I take her by the upper arms and lead her to a chair and pressure her slightly to sit. She does and looks up at me-waiting.

"You shouldn't have come here," I say. "It's too dangerous. I'm being watched—if what your father-in-law said is true and I have no reason to doubt him, and if someone recognizes you, saw you coming back to the scene of the crime, so to speak…" I shake my head. "Zane this is foolish and irresponsible."

"Don't lecture me, Adam. I live among the enemy and you're the only ally I have. Tell me what was so important that you came to see me." She unpins her hat and removes it. Stray tendrils fall about her face; it's obvious she hurriedly put up her hair.

I sit on the edge of the bed facing her. I decide not to tell her about my doubts about her honesty. "I went to tell you I retained a lawyer for you—Jedidiah Fenster. He's going to visit you tomorrow—don't allow him to be turned away. I would accompany him but, well, I have plans to return home in the morning."

Zane looks about the room and notes that my portmanteau is half-packed on the floor. "Yes. You are leaving, aren't you? I mean, I knew you would have to return home, but well, I…" She stops speaking and looks at the small hat in her lap. She pulls on one of the three feathered decorations, smoothing out the plume. "Was there anything else you wanted to tell me? I took a big chance coming to see you and I deserve to know the truth." She looks at me—doesn't avert her eyes. "Tell me, Adam I know that you've changed toward me, felt it when I saw your face at the door. What did my father-in-law and Morty tell you? Did they threaten you? Your family? That's what he does—threats. I wouldn't blame you for leaving if they had. Did they slander me? That's a foolish question—I'm sure they did but what did they tell you?"

My mind races, judging what to reveal and what to conceal. But I'm too old for this game and decide to tell what I know.

"They said nothing about you—made an implied threat against me and my wife and child—and my father and brothers—said that it wouldn't be too difficult to ruin them or have any of them meet with an accident but I had planned to leave anyway. I have to admit that I may have considered staying longer just to spite the old man if he had threatened me only but when it comes to my son and…well, I haven't quite decided..."

"I'm sorry, Adam. I didn't mean for you to become involved in all this."

"It wasn't you—I came here, remember? I sought you out. I came all this way like a goddamn fool to save the woman I once loved but now, Zane, I don't know who you really are." She lifted her face to me again and I almost groaned; damn, I adored her-still. "But I won't abandon you. I've just decided I'm going to stay a few more days just to confirm that Fenster will be able to defend you and has your defense in hand. I want my money's worth," I add with a smile.

"Thank you," she said. Then she looked down and toyed with her hat again. "So is that why you went to the house tonight? Is that all?"

"No." She looks up—hopeful.

"A Mrs. Ellen Stafford came to see me tonight." I wait but Zane just looks at me, curious, waiting to hear the rest. "She says she's Wade Curtis' sister."

"If Wade had a sister, I know nothing of it. I only had a few conversations with the man—barely knew him expect as the blackmailer he was."

"Mrs. Stafford said that Wade was your lover. Was he?"

Zane stares for a moment as if stunned, and then laughs and continues to laugh, a laugh I know will break into wails if she continues—her emotions are so close to the surface. I go over to the chair and pull her up, giving her a slight shake. She stops laughing and I press her to me momentarily and whisper that it will be all right—then release her. She sits back down-despondent. Her hat lies on the floor where it fell.

"Oh, Adam, if you only knew how ridiculous that is—how absolutely absurd. Oh, I've had lovers, quite a few but not as many as people would like to believe. They think that I have men lined up outside my door, diddling each other to keep themselves pointing upward, and never even pause to wipe myself between men."

Somehow, I find the thought arousing and silently chastise myself. But on its own accord, my mind creates pictures of Zane, her legs splayed and men enjoying her. Then it changes into Mary Edith lying in our bed and the ranch hands lining up to fulfill her desires since her husband never sleeps with her anymore. I almost have to shake my head to rid myself of the image. Are Zane and Mary Edith so different? Don't they both have husbands who are inattentive to their sexual needs? I've never even asked Mary Edith if she has any, if she wants me to touch her between her legs, kiss her breasts or slip my tongue into her mouth in lieu of the peck on the cheek each morning before I leave.

"Why is it so ridiculous?" I ask.

She looks up at me. "Because Wade Curtis was Morty's lover—not mine. He was blackmailing Morty and me by association—called Morty a sodomite and said that soon the whole world would know—if we didn't pay more money to him."

"What?" I'm surprised. Zane had never revealed that to me. What she had told me the first time I asked was that Morty had gone to the Fairmont Hotel to give Wade money to go away—or to kill him if necessary since he was harassing her. It seems Wade had been, but not for the reason Zane had implied—that it was her reputation that was going to explode and destroy the Otis family. But now I had all the information and my mind raced to complete the whole story—to understand what really happened and why Wade Curtis was murdered.

The night of the murder, Morty Otis had snuck up the service stairwell of the hotel. He had been at wits' end, Zane had told me—felt his world was crashing down. Although Zane and Morty's marriage was a sham, they were friends and she cared for him but that night, she feared for him, especially when he unlocked a maple box and took out a derringer and loaded it. Zane, frightened, tried to assure him that if they went together and told Curtis that they had a final offer he could take or leave, they would be able to convince him to go. She didn't believe it but it seemed a possibility. But Zane was unable to deter him, and Morty left. Fear began to eat at her and she finally, she went to the hotel, walking through the front doors and across the lobby; she made no pretense as to her identity. She had previously been to see Wade so she knew his room. On her other visits, she had tried to convince Wade Curtis to take the amount she could gather from her small personal account-$3,500.00. It was all she had. Wade had refused—laughed at what he considered a small amount. She had garnered more money—Morty had managed to wrangle a few thousand from the family banker but the more money they gathered, the greedier Curtis became. Morty told Zane that Curtis was never going away—he was the stone around their necks and would drown them—he would be there forever with his hand out. She advised him to tell his father about it, at least about the blackmail. As for Morty and Wade Curtis as lovers, there was no need to tell his father; according to Morty, James Otis was aware of his son's preference for men—and also his current desire or opium. Wade Curtis had introduced Morty to the substance—said it enhanced sexual experiences—and then used Morty's addiction against him, used it to keep him under his thumb by keeping him supplied. Zane told me that once she married Morty, once he finally revealed all to her, she understood why their first sexual encounter-before she ever met Adam—had been so unsatisfactory for them both.

But on the night of the murder, when Zane arrived at Curtis' room, she walked in on Morty holding a derringer pointed at Curtis. Zane had tried to talk him into putting it down but then Curtis laughed—called them both pathetic idiots and asked Zane how she could love the excuse for a man that Morty Otis was. Curtis called Morty a sodomite and said that soon, the whole world would know; he had decided to sell his story—had received a huge offer but was still shopping around; Newspapers would pay a great deal for a scandal in the Otis family. Zane didn't believe him and said so—she knew Wade Curtis wouldn't settle for just a one-time pay-out but she couldn't convince Morty.

Curtis sneered at them and said they made the perfect couple—a whore and a bugger—what a sad pair. And that was when Morty shot Wade. Zane was shocked when the shot rang out and Wade Curtis looked surprised and then just slumped down—and there was no blood really, she had said. No blood at all—just a red hole in his forehead. It was then he tried to grab the gun from Morty but he pulled his hand up and it fired—where the bullet went, she hadn't known. She told Morty to give her the gun and to leave—sneak out. She would take the gun and walk out of the hotel. It was while she was trying to pull open her reticule to hide the small derringer that the bellhop and the desk clerk arrived and tried to apprehend her.

Zane went home and shaking with horror, she told her father-in-law what happened. When Morty had arrived, he was distraught, collapsed and claimed he needed opium. His father slapped him—twice-and Morty broke down, cried and apologized to Zane and his father—he didn't want to hang. James Otis said that if Zane took the blame, he would, of course, have his best lawyers defend her and he was sure she would be exonerated—and juries wouldn't convict a woman; women were roundly set free and women also were never hanged—never. Otis took his son and left and Zane had no idea where they went but she was arrested soon by constables who came to the house and then, after the lawyer arrived to argue for her release, she was remanded into her father-in-law's custody. The lawyer assured Zane that she would be defended properly and would be exonerated of murder—women were always pathetic creatures and people had mercy on them, he said. Zane felt she had no recourse but to put her fate in their hands.


	19. Chapter 19

Zane sighs. "I wanted to protect Morty—he's weak, like a child in many ways and he's kind—he really is, Adam. It's just that his father is so powerful, such a strong personality and Morty—he's so weak. If Wade hadn't come into our lives—but it doesn't matter, does it? I just don't know what I can do—I sometimes feel it's useless to struggle."

I make a consequential decision. "I'll see Mr. Fenster first thing in the morning, go to the courthouse and have him listed as your advocate of record. Then I'll accompany him to call on you. If your father-in-law tries to turn us away, well, I'll just have to say that I know about his son and his tastes for both men and opium and hope he interprets that as an implied threat." I have to admit it feels good to have something to hold over James Otis' head.

Zane shoots up from the chair and I stand up in response. "Oh, Adam…his mother doesn't know about any of that and if she did, she would be crushed. And, Adam, Morty is like a child in so many ways. He doesn't deserve…"

"Why are you defending him, Zane? He's ready to send you to the gallows to save himself. Don't you understand any of this, how serious it is? You can't let yourself be blamed for this. Morty did it—didn't he?" Doubt is raided again—had she lied to me twice? I damn my suspicious nature.

Zane's eyes fill with tears. "Yes, I know, but I keep hoping… Oh, Adam…" She looks at me as if I hold the secret to something, as if I'm the answer to an unspoken question but I'm not—I'm nothing but a man struggling with himself to do the best thing all around but I don't know what that is. I used to know—everything was either black or white but the older I become, the more things change into shades of gray-lines are blurred and I find myself compromising my values. I'm merely a man who can't resist helping the woman he had loved for so long and finally found again. That woman, Zane, still makes my blood sing in my veins, still fills my heart with such love that I feel overwhelming emotion.

I pull Zane into my arms and she wraps her arms about my chest and lays her head against it. My pounding heart must be deafening. I kiss her hair. It's fragrant and smooth and I tip up her chin and find my mouth searching for hers. We kiss and she whispers my name, calls me her only love and I'm undone. All my reserve, all my efforts to resist Zane fall away. I sweep her up and lay her on the bed and she looks at me with such love, such desire that soon we are pulling at each other's clothes, our mouths searching, our hands roaming free and our restraint gone. Then we are lying in each other's embrace, our bodies still wrapped together after our mutual release and my heart is singing.

"Adam," she says, her head resting on my chest, "you have gray in your chest hair." I feel her fingers in the sweaty mass of hair that covers me.

"I'm an old man and you're still young and beautiful. I don't know how that happened, Zane, how everyone around you aged while you still look as beautiful as that night we first met."

"No, Adam—that's just how you see me, how you think of me. But I'm so different. Haven't you noticed that?" She raises her head and looks at me. "I have forgiven you, you know. Forgave you a few years ago."

"Forgiven me? For what? If I ever hurt you, I never knew."

She sits up, most of her black hair had come loose and covered her shoulders and curled about her breasts like some sylvan dryad who had been captured and taken to bed by the lucky hunter. I sat up as well and pushed myself back to rest against the headboard.

"I don't blame you anymore for leaving after you found out about the child—I understand you were struggling and wouldn't have been able to support a wife and child and since I had told you that I knew of ways to keep from conceiving, well, I suppose it seemed I had tricked you. It was carelessness on my part but once I discovered I was with child, well, I wanted it—selfishly, I know-so I suppose it was all my fault; I was thoughtless and allowed myself to conceive. But when my father told me you had said it wasn't yours, that it must be another man's…"

I grab her by her arms; she's so small in my grip. "What are you saying, Zane? No one told me about a child back then. No one. Your father told me you were marrying Morty Otis—that it had been decided but he said nothing about a child. Not then—I only found out the other day from Martha—and she almost didn't tell me."

"What?" Zane is incredulous. "You didn't know? You didn't leave me because I was with child?"

"No—Zane, how could you think…. Oh, Zane…" I embrace her again, hold her to me and she begins to weep. I tell her not to cry, please not to cry. I try to comfort her the same way I do my crying child, my voice low and warm. My child—Abner, suddenly comes back to me and then Mary Edith, always silent but always there in the background, watching me and loving me. I am a selfish bastard and I don't deserve someone who loves me so unconditionally. Will she love me after this, smile gently and tell me she forgives me? I thinks she knows about my peccadilloes with the whores but never mentions them because then she would have to confront me and I believe she's unsure what might happen. Would she have to leave me? Go the Ponderosa, weeping and wailing and tell my father what I had done, how I had betrayed my wedding vows? But no-it would create too much of a mess and Mary Edith can't bear a mess—everything must be tidy and neat—clean—almost sterile. I think of how she would practically leap out of bed after sex to go wash. And then, when she would return, she would insist I wash off any stickiness. No mess—never a mess.

And I think of what I have done. What kind of mess have I made, I ask myself? Earlier I confessed to you, reader, that I had been to brothels during my marriage but that was just to rent a body for a few hours but this—this act with Zane was an act of love, of true desire for a specific person, Zane-not just a mechanical, mindless act like a mine's air pump going up and down in perpetual motion. I feel a sense of doom until Zane moves in my arms and presses her face under my chin, nestles closer and kisses my throat. My heart opens and I caress her, feeling her smoothness under my hands. Oh, Zane, I think-we could have been together all this time but I try not to think about things that might have been—just what is.

The past is the past, I tell Zane, and there's nothing we can do about it but move on. But I want to howl, to rend the air with my bellows of pain at lost chances, years lost when Zane and I could have been together. Perhaps the child wouldn't have died had we married—perhaps it still would have but we would have been able to comfort each other. We would have had each other. I tell myself to cherish this time, to remember the feel and smell of Zane, to listen to her voice and the look of adoration in her eyes for soon, all of it will end. We cannot go on like this.

"Adam, I should go. I need to get back to the house before anyone realizes I've gone." She pulls away from me reluctantly and just as reluctantly, I release her.

I pull on my trousers and shirt-partially button it and then I assist Zane with hooks and other closures; I have never known how women manage to dress themselves. Mary Edith has no lady's maid, never wanted one and yet manages to turn herself out corseted and buttoned-up—nothing out of order—every day.

Whenever I notice how there is never even a stray lock escaping from Mary Edith's snood, never a button left undone even at her throat, never even a bare ankle exposed, I am reminded of the poem by Herrick that contains the lines: _A sweet disorder in the dress, kindles in clothes a wantonness…an erring lace…a cuff neglectful…a careless shoe-string…do more bewitch me than when art is too precise in every part._ And as her clothes, so Mary Edith—she has never come undone, never let her passions overwhelm her. She had never clung to me as Zane has, never wrapped her legs about my waist and cried out in ecstasy as intense waves of delight overwhelmed her. No, Mary Edith is Mary Edith—calm, steady, always the same and that had been appealing at the time. I needed ballast in my life and she appeared to offer it. She is what I wanted at the time and she's not to blame for who she is. Ad I do love her, never care to hurt her

Finally put together, Zane attempts to put up her hair and we search the sheets for loose hair pins which to me look like miniature tuning forks. We toss pillows on the floor as we find the escaped pins and then I look at Zane bent over the bed, look down her cleavage. "Wait," I say. She looks at me quizzically as I reach down her dress and pull out a hairpin and present it. We look at one another and Zane starts giggling. I start chuckling and soon we're laughing at the ridiculous situation—the absurdity of it all, our pulling off sheets and such to find hairpins and then one being luckily trapped in her cleavage.

We laughed together so many years ago. Zane was always laughing back then—always so happy. What a juxtaposition. Slowly our laughter dies and Zane takes the found pins and deftly put up her hair, places the hat on her head attaching it with the hat pin and pulls down the veil.

"Let me put on my boots and jacket and I'll see you home," I say, sitting back down to pull on my boots. She stays my hand.

"No, Adam. No one must see us together."

I stand up. I can't let her go alone. It's late, so late it's almost morning. "Zane, none of that matters."

"Yes, it does. I had to see you, to settle situations with you because, Adam, I know that we'll never be together. Your life is out west with your family and mine, well, I don't know if I'll have one after the trial but it doesn't include you. Now, Adam, don't look so hurt—please. I know the truth often hurts but this…this is our truth. I love you and you love me but I'm no princess and you're not a knight come to rescue me. We're both just people—ordinary people who want love and happiness but I know you, Adam. I know you can't be happy, not even with me, if you hurt those you love and I know you love your family—your wife and child, your father and brothers."

I want to tell her she doesn't know anything about me but she does—she knows me to my bones. All those nights we talked into the early hours lying in each other's arms—we knew each other's fear, desires and wishes. Zane knows me—even better perhaps than I know myself.

I let her go and then curse myself. Zane is right though—she can't be seen with me; for all I know, I'm being watched and Zane's foray is being reported to James Otis at this moment. I know I won't sleep so I go to wash and shave. I have a busy day ahead—an important day.


	20. Chapter 20

I sent a wire to the Ponderosa telling them of my departure from Boston and that I would be home in approximately a week depending on the weather and the condition of the tracks. Many times, the tracks were damaged by Indians or annoyed settlers. I would then remember how Sherman's men tore up the railway tracks to the south, twisting the metal around trees and anything they could find into what was called. "Sherman's bowties."

My return trip took nine days; there had been an incident with the Pawnee when we passed through Kansas. They had set fires on the tracks and burned away the timbering and attacked the train once it stopped. Those of us with weapons were asked to help and I took position at one of the windows. It was an interesting diversion that lasted less than twenty minutes by my calculations. I later heard it was because the noise of trains scared away the animals and the Pawnee hoped to stop the "evil" locomotives. Nevertheless, we were held up for three days while an engineer and I—acting as guard and toting a Winchester, courtesy of the Union Pacific, walked to the next town—thankfully, not too far away, to send a telegram and have the railroad send out men to repair the line.

It was early afternoon on a Sunday when the train pulled into the Carson City depot. I hired a rig and headed to the Ponderosa. My family—that is my father and brothers, came out to see me—smiling—when I pulled into the yard. After handshakes, back slaps and a short exchange of some good-natured brotherly insults, I asked about Mary Edith and Abner.

"When we got your wire," my father said, "Mary Edith insisted on returning to the house."

"And you let her?"

"Well, what'd you 'spect us to do?" Hoss asked. "Hog-tie 'er and lock her in her room?"

I could feel my anger rising. "No, but I would expect you to keep her safe here. I can't believe that the three of you…"

"Wait, wait , wait," my father said, holding my arm and holding up his other hand—palm out, motioning to Hoss and Joe who was about to jump in with Hoss' defense. "I imagine you're tired, Adam. Do you want to come in and have coffee before you head home?"

"No. I just want to get home and make sure they're all right." I climbed up to the driver's seat of the rig. I was angry but wasn't sure at whom—my father, Hoss, Joe, Mary Edith-myself?

"Hell, Adam," Joe said, "we've been checking on them twice a day and there was no stopping Mary Edith once she decided to go to the house; she didn't seem too happy about staying here anyway—complained the whole time and said how much she wanted to be in her own house. Hoss and I were spoiling Abner, Hops Sing fed him too many sweets, Pa ruined his bedtime by playing with him. Nothing we did was right."

I sighed, holding the reins. "I know that Mary Edith prefers to be in our house and that she has certain ideas about raising Abner-it's just that I expected them to be here. Thanks. Pa, for keeping them here for as long as you did. You two as well. Hope Abner didn't wear you out."

"Near 'bout did," Hoss said and Joe laughed. "I think I lost 10 pounds just chasin' him chasin' the chickens. I took 'im fishin' and all he wanted to do was go swimmin'. I told 'im the water was too cold but dang it all, he insisted. I near 'bout froze my balls off carryin' im while he pretended to swim, but he loved it—splashed around with his little teeth chatterin' like a squirrel's."

Pa chuckled and smiled proudly. "I tell you, Adam, he's all boy! Runs around here like a young bull—gets into everything. And he's a happy boy. Loves his uncles and his grampa."

I had to smile—my boy—but my mind went back to my son who had lived only a brief week—a mere blink of time. I wondered for a split second what he would be like today but brought myself back to the moment. "Well, I best be heading home. Thanks for taking care of them."

"They're family—always welcome and we loved having them," my father said.

"Even Hop Sing?" I asked. As I said, it was Sunday, Hop Sing's day off when he went to Chinatown to visit his plethora of relatives. There were so many of them that I doubted if they were all actual relations.

Joe spoke up. "Especially Hop Sing. He taught Abner the Chinese word for grandfather and within a day, Abner was calling him that. Hop Sing loved it."

"Yeah," Hoss added, "Hop Sing said he was Abner's Chinese grandpappy and one day took 'im into Chinatown and bragged on 'im to everyone. I swear, Abner came back wearin' Chinese slippers, one of them high-colllared jackets, a coupla pull-toys and with a bag of more sugar candy than you can 'magine."

"Mary Edith allowed it?" I was surprised.

Joe looked down and my father cleared his throat.

"Well," Hoss said, "Mary Edith didn't know 'bout Hop Sing takin' Abner with 'im 'til after they was gone. She weren't none too happy and later when Abner done puked up all the cakes and candies he ate in Chinatown, well, she kinda shook her finger at Hop Sing and tol' 'im to never do that again."

"Oh?"

"Hop Sing pouted and muttered for two days but they's all right with each other now."

"Well, that's good." Somehow I doubted that; Hop Sing had been chastised before by Mary Edith for feeding Abner too many sweets and he didn't forgive people easily—usually muttered a Chinese curse under his breath. I held the reins, ready to go. "I'll stop by tomorrow, Pa, and catch up on the business, look over the books with you before I take them home."

"Take the day off," Pa said. "Why don't all of you come for an early dinner? I'll have Hop Sing have it ready by 4:00. We can look at the books after dinner and I can see my grandson again—he becomes a habit, you know."

I smiled and Joe and Hoss stepped back from the wagon but my father stepped closer.

"Did you finish your business in Boston?" he asked me in hushed tones. His eyes were searching my face, I'm sure looking for my reaction.

But I just nodded and said, "Yeah, Pa. All taken care of. I don't think I'll need to return again." And I left for home.


	21. Chapter 21

**I hope that I have delineated the OC's-and the Cartwrights- enough that you can go beyond the implied resolution. Thus just seemed the end to the story. I hope I did as good a job with the characters as I think I did.**

Our house was a welcoming sight—a lighted lamp was in the front window as it was almost dark outside. I pulled up in the yard, climbed down and hitched the reins; I'd later unhitch the horse, feed it and curry it and then return it tomorrow morning. I was taught to take care of the horses before myself but I wanted to see Abner and Mary Edith—and yet I was afraid to see my wife. Would she be able to see the guilt in my face—my love for Zane? I took a deep breath, gathered my two bags and went to the house.

I tried the door and was glad that it didn't give; it was bolted from the inside. I dropped one bag and used the door knocker. I saw the curtain of the front window pulled aside, drop back, and then the bolt was pulled back and Mary Edith stood in the open doorway, smiling. Abner cried out, "Papa, Papa!" I stepped inside, dropped my bags and swung him up into my arms, kissed his rounded cheeks and hugged him against me.

"Put me down, Papa! I got toys! I show you!" I put him down and he hurried to climb the stairs to his room to get what he wanted to show me. I couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. I pulled off my hat and tossed it on a nearby chair and then gave Mary Edith all my attention.

"I'm glad to be home," I said. I pulled Mary Edith to me and was going to kiss her mouth but she presented her cheek so instead, I nuzzled her neck. I had determined that I would be more affectionate, more understanding of all she endured. But instead of responding as I had hoped, she ducked her head and pulled away, pushing her hands against my upper arms.

"What are you doing, Adam?" She looked back to the stairs and Abner was at the top two, determined to get his new toys.

"Kissing my wife. There's nothing wrong with that." I smiled and reached for her again and attempted to pull her to me. "I've been gone for almost a month. I'm just glad to be back with you and I want to show you."

She pulled away again, glancing to see if Abner was coming back down the stairs. "Abner might see us."

"Well, what if he does? We're married and I want to show you how much I missed you…how much I love you." I was determined to show her I loved her.

She dropped her voice. "You know what the doctor said, Adam. You know we can't have any more children—that it would probably kill me."

"There are ways to prevent it. You know I've always wanted to buy 'rubbers' from that mail-order catalogue. They have so many other things that you could use but I'll make sure that the whole burden is on me to prevent…" She looked at me, obviously uncomfortable. I had to admit this was bad timing; after all, I had just come home from a long trip and I imagined Mary Edith was tired after taking care of Abner by herself the past few days and worrying about me. "I'm sorry. I just thought that…" I released her and pulled off my jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair.

"I know how you must feel, Adam. I know men have needs but you must be aware of the stories about those devices—people use the 'rubbers' and they have holes or they break and those made of animal guts—to have that inside a person…" She blushed deeply and then, in what was an effort to end the conversation, picked up my jacket. "I'll brush this off and spot clean it. You know how suede stains. We should look at ordering you a new trail coat—maybe one of leather or darker suede." She looked anxious and I wasn't sure about what.

I reached out and held one of her arms gently, almost pleading with her. "Well, there are other ways we can…please each other?" I wanted to make her see that we could have a real marriage. I'm sure she knew about my trips to the brothel but had never said anything. This was a way to end any future visit.

"Whores' tricks? Is that that you want from me?"

"No—not…but you must have needs that I can meet. You're not an old woman and that part of your life shouldn't be over. Mary Edith, I'm here and I'm tired of sleeping alone."

"What happened to you in Boston, Adam? As soon as you step in the door you're talking this way—about marital relations—complaining about me."

I considered what I was going to say but Abner noisily came down the stairs, calling for me. He had to hold onto each post in the railing as he took each step, one at a time. In his other hand, he held a string, the other end tied to a wooden duck that clunked on each step behind him. "Look, look! I got a duck!"

Mary Edith shook her head. " _Got_ a duck. He's learning grammar incorrectly. He's spent too much time around Hoss and Hop Sing."

I decided then that things weren't going to go as I had planned. I released Mary Edith—she seemed relieved-and met Abner on the stairs. I picked him up. He still held the string and raised it. "See my duck? Yie Yie gots it for me!"

I looked at Mary Edith who obviously disapproved of Abner using the Chinese term of grandfather for Hop Sing. "Let's go to your room," I say. "You can show me all the other things you have." I spent time with him until Mary Edith came in and said it was bedtime and that she had dinner for me on the table. Abner protested, claiming he "don't wanna go to bed," but I handed him over to his mother and went downstairs. I passed my desk and saw a stack of mail that I picked up and then went to the table where a bowl of stew waited along with some biscuits and butter. Mary Edith was a good cook and I was hungry. But I left the envelopes by my plate and went into the kitchen to wash my hands—before Mary Edith asked me if I had-and then shuffled through the envelopes, looking at the return addresses, until I stopped and stared—barely breathing. I held an envelope with the return name and address, _Z. Vandeweghe, Boston, Massachusetts,_ in my hand. I held it and my blood pounded in my ears. It had been postmarked four days earlier. Zane had written me.

I stared at it and then slipped the butter knife under the flap and slit the paper, pulling out a single folded piece of paper.

 _My dear Adam,_

 _First, I want to let you know the outcome of your brave efforts on my behalf._

 _I have retained Jedediah Fenster to defend Morty and he is going to attempt a new defense which I'm sure you will find as clever as I do—Morty was under the influence of opium when he shot and killed Wade Curtis. Mr. Fenster believes that Morty's condition will mitigate the severity of the crime and he will call doctors and others to testify to the effect that opium addiction can have on a person's sensibilities. I hold out hope that Marty's punishment will not be severe—he has suffered enough._

 _With great sadness, I inform you that my father passed away two days after you left for Nevada. I won't tell you the details since I will begin to cry again if I do and there have been tears enough from everyone, but I will sell the house and Martha and I—loyal Martha-will use the proceeds to buy a small house in another city and live quietly. I don't yet know where that will be. Of course, it won't be until after Morty's trial. For the time, I am living in my family home, supporting Martha and myself through the sale of my jewels. I refuse to take any money from the Otis family._

 _I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done for me and for those I love. And my darling, I will treasure the memory of our last time together, of your wonderful voice, your laughter and the feel of your body next to mine. I do love you, Adam-you're the only man I have ever truly loved but you deserve better than me._

 _Much happiness to you and your family—they are fortunate indeed to have you amongst their midst. May God bless you._

 _Forever,_

 _Zane_

 _NEVER seek to tell thy love_

 _Love that never told can be;_

 _For the gentle wind doth move_

 _Silently invisibly.  
_

 _I told my love I told my love_

 _I told her all my heart_

 _Trembling cold in ghastly fears.  
_

 _Ah! she did depart!_

 _Soon after she was gone from me_

 _A traveler came by_

 _Silently invisibly:_

 _He took her with a sigh._

Zane had copied a poem by William Blake at the bottom—one I had read to her so many years ago. I had given her a slim volume of his works and I was pleased, flattered, she still had it and remembered, but I knew it was also a message—she forgave me all and was urging me to forgive myself my sexual indiscretion. But about one thing she was wrong if what she meant to suggest was that Zane wasn't my second choice, I didn't take her because she was there—it was an act of love-not just someone to replace Mary Edith.

I refolded the letter and slid it back inside the envelope. I heard Mary Edith coming behind me, folded the envelope in two, and put the letter in my shirt front.

"Did Abner go down easily?"

Mary Edith sat down in the chair from me; she looked tired and had gray shadows under her eyes. "No. He fussed that he wanted you to kiss him goodnight. He kept asking for you but it's really because he has a hundred more things he wants to tell you and show you. He's been spoiled beyond anything. He still balks at anything I tell him to do."

I smiled as ate. "Well, he'll settle down. The stew's good." She thanked me for the compliment but Mary Edith is a good cook. She provides basic fare for our table but it's tasty and filling.

I picked up the envelopes and opened another letter. She commented that Hoss had collected the mail yesterday and dropped it off. The letter I read was from a cattle buyer in Philadelphia. I read no more than a few lines when Mary Edith spoke up.

"Adam," she said. I looked up from the letter.

"I'm sorry for the way I reacted to what you said. It's just the idea of, well, of leaving Abner without a mother should anything happen to me…"

"It's all right, Mary Edith. I don't know what I was thinking. It's just that I've been away and…" But Mary Edith interrupted me.

"Give me time, Adam. Just give me time." She smiled gently.

"We have years yet," I said but somehow, I didn't find that comforting.

"The next catalogue that arrives, order what you like. I am your wife and you've been a good husband and I need to take up my duty to you again. I didn't know that the act was so important to you—you never said anything. I am sorry. I should have known."

I smile and reach over and squeeze her hand. "Thank you."

It was the next night and I was putting Abner to bed. He never wanted to sleep, was too fearful of missing out on something—anything—and since we had dinner at the Pomderosa, he was wound up like one of those clockwork toys.

"Sing knick-knack, Papa. Sing 'bout old man. Please?" Abner looked at me with his large dark eyes.

"Okay, but you go to sleep right after. Understand?"

" 'kay, Papa." He grinned. He loved to sing along with me but couldn't yet sing the all the verses; he would just chime in on certain words. He would raise his fingers whenever we would sing the number but I often had to pause while he looked at his fingers—he only knew one, two, three, five and ten fingers.

So I began singing, "This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb…" Abner held up one small thumb of his and I nodded. "With a knick-knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone, this old man came rolling home. This old man, he played two, he played knick-knack on my shoe, with a knick-knack, paddy whack, give a dag a bone…"

I finished the song and Abner pleaded for me to sing it, " 'gain, Papa,. Sing 'gain." I told him no, once was enough, and tucked him in, kissed his forehead and left the lamp on until he fell asleep. Abner claimed that "things" hid in the dark.

My back ached and I slowly walked down the stairs, each one jarring my spine. I still had accounts to go over-no one had balanced them during my absence and although part of me wished someone had, I also knew that I would go over all their work anyway. Better the books were untouched. I had brought the account book and the receipts back with me after dinner and wanted to make good headway tonight. So I went in the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. As I turned to go back out to my desk, Mary Edith stood in the doorway. She looked odd.

"Abner was wide-awake but in a short time he'll be asleep. He had a busy time tonight." She didn't move or say anything. "If you're going to bed, put out his lamp, would you?" She still said nothing. Instead she raised a folded paper. I considered it for a mere second and then realized it was Zane's letter to me.

"I was gathering your clothes for the wash and going through the pockets and I found this. I read it to see if it was trash or important. It's a letter from a woman—Zane. She's why you went to Boston, isn't she?"

I wanted to lie, to say that I just happened to see Zane while I was in Boston but I don't lie well and I didn't want to lie to Mary Edith anyway. I had decided I wasn't going to burst out with an unprovoked confession to sex with Zane but if Mary Edith asked me if I had been unfaithful, I would tell her the truth. "Yes," I said. I still held my coffee cup.

Mary Edith glanced at the paper again. "From what this woman wrote…did you have sex with her while in Boston?"

I paused; I didn't want to hurt Mary Edith but as I said, I'm sure she knew about my local peccadilloes and that love wasn't involved; that's the most important thing to women.

"Yes," I said quietly.

"I see." She handed me the letter and I slipped it into my pants' pocket. "I can understand that, I suppose. You were away and a woman made herself available to you. It also explains your behavior last night-your ideas of ordering contraceptives and such."

We stood in silence. Then she sighed and gathered herself, bracing herself as if for a battering.

"Do you love her, Adam?"

Mary Edith stood waiting-and I had no idea what I was going to say.

~ Finis ~


End file.
